


Light of All Lights

by Ripplestitchskein



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dark Emma Swan, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Deckhand Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Eventual Smut, F/M, Power Dynamics, Romance, Sex Education, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-05 02:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 107,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10295621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ripplestitchskein/pseuds/Ripplestitchskein
Summary: A fairy tale in five parts. When his ship crashes onto a secluded island after a storm Killian "Deckhand Hook" Jones finds himself the unlikely companion to the dark "goddess" who inhabits it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would be nowhere near where it is without CaprelloIdea's encouragment, handholding and wonderful suggestions. This is not the typical dominate/submissive relationship, but there are elements of such. Title is from Bram Stoker's Dracula.

Thunder cracked in the sky above, the entire ship tremoring and shuddering with the force, and not a blink later purple silver lighting flared brilliant white in the crew quarters. The storm was upon them.

 

Starkey crowed as Hook threw up an arm, his hammock swinging violently, almost pitching him to the deck, the flinch happening before he could check himself. 

 

“Oh no not the raaain,” came a high pitched mocking voice from somewhere in the black darkness of the cabin. Probably Evans. Loud raucous laughter followed, but Hook ignored it, their mocking jeers the least of his concerns as the thunder boomed again, the ship pitching with the force of another wave. 

 

Hook squeezed his eyes tighter, his hand clenched at his side to still the shaking.

 

It wasn't that he was scared of storms persay, but bumpy seas always meant no lanterns could be lit, all fires must be extinguished, and the crew quarters were pitch black save for the flashing lighting in the portholes. It wasn't that he was scared of the dark either, but he definitely preferred the light. He was also quite sure they were all going to die, and like most things in his life, he was terribly afraid of death. 

 

“‘Maybe ‘e’s worried ‘is hook will rust,” came another voice. “Then how’ll he lay about scratching his arse the useless twat?” The laughs came again, the pounding rain at least drowning them out a tad. Thunder cracked once more, and in unison the men all shrieked in mock terror. 

 

“Not me hair!” Came a cry. 

 

“B-b-b-bloody hell,” came another. They laughed again. It was an old game, the same old insults, the same mocking jeers.

 

Hook continued to ignore them, a decade and then some of practice helping him along, focusing on his breath, on maintaining his place in the swinging hammock as the ship rocked and swayed beneath him. If he fell on his face in front of them again, it would only make it worse. 

 

A cry came from above, this one serious, and his heart jolted in terror as he heard the pounding of boots on the deck joining the torrent of rain. A man shouted something from above and the laughter in the room died abruptly. 

 

“All hands!” came the cry. “All hands on deck!” 

 

Hook froze as his crewmates tore from their own hammocks, scrambling around in the dark for their boots and swords. He wanted to move, truly he did, but his limbs wouldn't obey, locked with fear at what was happening, at what could happen. A million terrifying possibilities flicked through his mind, freezing him cold. His shipmates however didn't hesitate, just cursed and grunted in the dark, solemn in their movements as the ship gave another violent pitch. They weren't laughing now. 

 

“Come on, you useless git,” a shove came from the darkness, strong arms upending his hammock. His hand scrabbled uselessly to hold on as he fell, his hook and palm smacking the wood of the floor. He felt a sharp kick to his ribs as someone passed, curling inward to protect against further assault as the men filed out into the galley, and then to the deck above. Someone, Evans again he suspected, tread painfully on his fingers as he passed. 

 

His hand trembling, he cursed, willing the fear away, deep breaths in and out to push it aside. But as always, it was pointless, his fingers could barely pull on his boots, his hook no help at all, and he fumbled awkwardly over the sword he never used but still carried to keep the jests at bay. There were more shouts from above, the thunder and rain drowning out the words as he scrambled to find his other boot, hoping Jasper hadn't hidden it again. 

 

“The line, get the line!” someone shouted, there was a chorus of yells, a terrified cry. It didn’t help his motivation to be honest, but he tried anyway, he couldn't be the only one cowering below deck. He would never hear the end of  _ that.  _ The punishment would be severe. His heart pounding in terror, he moved towards the ladder. 

 

Water rained down from the hatch above, the rungs slick, and he clung to it, his boots slipping as he hauled himself up, the ship rocking so hard he almost fell backwards onto the galley floor more than once.

 

He tentatively peeked his head out, rain and sea plastering his hair to his forehead the moment he breached the deck. It was utter panicking chaos. Men running to and fro, the sea churning and angry and violent, canvas snapping and twisting in the wind. The ship creaked and groaned around them. He flinched again as another crack rent the sky, the entire deck cast in sharp relief as the lighting followed. 

 

He had barely set his foot to sopping wet wood when the scream came from above, barely had time to register the words before the entire ship seemed to shriek. And then he was flying, soaring through the air, arms windmilling as water rushed up suddenly from nowhere to meet him, the world swimming, lightning flashing in the sky. A relentless torrent of water grabbed him, pulled him, crested and broke over his head. His limbs moved  uselessly against it, mouth opening in a silent scream as the waves pushed him into the murky depths, every fiber of his being screaming in fear as the ocean claimed him. The dark closed in fast, pressed against him, pulled him further and further down as he bucked and kicked against it, reaching uselessly towards the flashing light above. The words finally came clear as unconsciousness overtook him. 

 

“Land ho.” 

 

_______

 

He was drowning. Dying. His chest squeezing painfully tight with the pressure. Hook choked and spluttered, arching up, back bowing as harsh stinging water bubbled up from his throat. He groaned, rolling over onto his side, vomiting the sea in endless heaving sobs onto the wet packed sand of a beach. His hook dug into the sand, trying to steady him. A beach. He was on a beach. Land ho. This was the land. 

 

Hook groaned again, collapsing onto his back. He was alive. He was alive and everything hurt. Another pained moan broke free. He’d almost prefer he wasn't if this was the alternative, this all encompassing pain. 

 

Hook swallowed reflexively, throat working, raw and sore. It felt like he had swallowed and spit up an entire sea worth of rough salty water and his throat burned. He coughed once more, moaning again, every movement sending sharp ribbons of pain through him, but he was alive. He supposed he should be grateful. 

 

Hook slowly opened his eyes.

 

And saw a goddess.

 

Her hair was pure silver white in the moonlight, sharp and severe against her scalp, her face all angles and sharp lines, and breathtakingly gorgeous, stilling his labored breath. Pale white skin shone in the glowing light, her lips stained dark blood red and pulled into a grim frowning line. He had never seen such a woman. He had read stories, the Greek tales his favorite, stumbling over the strange words but gleaning their meaning. When he had pictured gods and goddesses he had imagined exactly this. 

 

“Am I dead?” He wheezed. “Have I died?” 

 

“Not yet,” her voice was smokey satin silk, almost bored as she regarded him. “But it’s early.” 

 

Another cough tore through him against his will, embarrassing in front of such a vision and he propped himself on elbows to rise, his entire body protesting the movement, gasping for air. The sounds of the beach came flooding in then, more pained groans, shrieking cries, the crew of his ship scattered amongst the sand like so much debris. 

 

He looked up at her, the goddess, and felt his heart seize. A black leather coat clung to her curves, cupping small compact breasts, the dip of a narrow waist, flaring out at the hips all the way to her feet. She was possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, an angel in the moonlight. Hook flushed, turning a brilliant red, as he cast his eyes away, his chest a mix of fear and awe, and his old friend humiliation. He had thrown up in front of her, had panicked and clawed his way back to consciousness beneath her gaze. Made a fool of himself in front of a deity. Of all the first impressions.

 

“T-t-thank you,” he stammered out, his tongue suddenly feeling two times too big for his mouth, his throat closing. He had never been particularly useful around women, something about them making his quick mind dull, his movements uncertain and awkward, apparently that extended to goddesses as well. 

 

“For?” She asked. 

 

“Saving me?” It came out a question, he wasn't sure if she had, to be honest, but the goddess didn't answer it, moving away from him with one lingering curious look. That was also a pretty standard reaction from the fairer set. His apparently handsome face drew them in, his bumbling ineptitude turning them away disappointed and confused just as quickly. 

 

It was an endless amusement to the crew at least, they loved to watch him blush and stammer and fumble his way through every interaction. It sometimes seemed like more coin exchanged hands with pretty girls to watch him utterly fail than had ever been spent on the pursuit of pleasure. It was worse when the women joined in as well, their eyes alight with the promise of money more easily earned. Why sweat on their backs and knees when they could mock a cowardly cripple with a drink in their hands and coins pressed into their corsets with every taunting jeer?

 

He shook the thought away, it didn't matter now, she had already moved along, perhaps sensing his uselessness as he’d vomited and writhed at her feet. Who was she? Where were they? He watched as the goddess moved along the beach like a wraith, finding it much easier to breathe once she was no longer looking at him with burning jade eyes. 

 

______

 

The ship had been a surprise to be sure. It had been decades since  _ any _ vessel had even come close to her island haven, most too scared of the legends surrounding The Dark One to even risk entering the waters for a thousand leagues in any direction, but one apparently had, in pieces, a dozen men now groaning and braying on her beach. They begged her for water, clutched at her boots, demanded and demanded.

 

She eyed the rabble with a faint distaste, shaking them off, unsure of what to even do with them. She preferred the peace and quiet of her self imposed exile, the silent paradise she had forged here. She wasn't built to play nursemaid to a ragtag group of pirates. That was not her purpose. 

 

“Oi,” came a voice, strong and booming. Emma raised an eyebrow. “You there! Wench!”

 

The man who approached her, limping along the beach was obviously used to people paying attention to him, apparently used to getting a response addressing people in such a manner. He was older, his hair falling in soaked black ringlets against a dark beard, his red coat sandy and wet. He stared her down, his eyes raking her form with unmasked interest, a smirk playing across his lips as he licked them. Her’s curled in distaste. 

 

“Wench?” She murmured, the sickly sweet tone edged in danger. He didn't take the hint.

 

“Well don't just stand there,” he snapped at her. Cold rage stirred to life in her belly, a feeling she hadn't entertained in quite some time. That's why she had hidden herself here in the first place. But far be it for her to turn away a gift. She smiled at him, teeth white against the red of her lips. 

 

He should have taken it as a warning, the darkness coming to life, demanding to be fed, demanding retribution that someone would dare to speak to her that way. It had been so long. The small part of her, the old her, buried deep, weakly protested she should help, some of them could be hurt, but the darkness slithered in, stoked the flames and hissed. Intruders. They dare trespass on  _ her _ island and make demands?

 

“And what would you have me do?” She asked, her smile twisting into something wicked. 

 

“Make yourself useful,” he snapped. “These men need shelter, blankets, food.” He gestured impatiently at the crew. “We need to get them inside.”

 

“Oh! Shelter is what you want?” She asked, tilting her head to the side. 

 

“Are there any thoughts in that pretty head or are you just deaf, woman?” The man motioned at his crew again impatiently. “Go fetch the master of this place.”

 

“Of course,” Emma said placatingly. Her face was the picture of calm despite the raging within, the darkness demanding she crush him where he stood, feel his spine snap and twist. “You’ve already made her acquaintance.”

 

She gave him another small smile. He seemed to realize his mistake then, another perusing scan, this one far less interested in her womanly figure, had him stepping back in fear. The darkness swirled within, excited, clapping its hands in glee, crackling energy sparking off her skin.

 

“You asked for shelter and luckily for you, I'm feeling hospitable,” Emma raised a hand. The man opened his mouth again, to protest, perhaps to apologize, beg, grovel, it was all the same, and she was already moving, snapping her fingers, the scattered men on the beach disappearing in plumes of white gray smoke. 

 

“Make yourselves at home.”

 

_____

 

Hook had spent enough of his life in the brig, for one clumsy misstep or another, that confinement didn't really bother him anymore. In some ways it was a relief, a brief respite from the taunting and jeers, the kicks of boots and slaps on the back of his head. In the brig he had a place of his own to rest, silence and solitude. There was nothing to trip over and spill, nothing to ruin or mess up. This dungeon was at least clean, which is more than he could say for Blackbeard’s hold, and it was thankfully well lit, flickering torches casting the bars in shadows on the stone walls. It was almost cozy in comparison to the scum filled cell on the ship.

 

The screams however were not exactly pleasant. 

 

One moment he had been lying on the beach, body aching, watching his Captain sneer orders at the striking woman he’d awoken to, feeling as though that was a terrible idea, and the next he found himself on the cold stone floor of a small cell. His crewmates filling the rest, lined up like wares on display. 

 

They seemed less appreciative of their confinement. They yelled and beat the bars, bellowed to be released, to be let go. They cursed and spit and banged their swords and clubs in unison against the iron. They spat insults and threats, the ones who were in any condition to do so, filling the dungeon with noise to drown out the shrieks of tortured pain. That also seemed like a bad idea. 

 

They were all there, Jasper and Evans, Starkey and Glick, all except for the Captain, noticeably absent, and most likely the source of the screams that had filled his hours here so far. The man probably should have been a bit more polite. 

 

The screams suddenly stopped.

 

The entire crew seemed to hold their breath in unison, the prison now silent save for the sharp rhythmic clicks of heels on stone. Killian wanted to edge closer, to see the source, but fear kept him rooted to the spot. His hook dug into the stone. 

 

A long leg came into view, high black boots and firm slender thighs, her coat swishing around her. She looked at the cells with interest, just as beautiful as before but now considerably more terrifying. His Captain was the most dangerous man he knew, had killed hundreds, and she had reduced him to a squalling begging infant in mere minutes. His screams of pain and terror wouldn't be something Hook forgot anytime soon, though he couldn't exactly claim to feel sorry for them. And she had magic, had sent them all here with the snap of her fingers. Power clung to her like perfume, a sweetly scented smoke, crackling in the air around her.

 

“Did you guys need something?” She asked sweetly. “Was that you calling for me?” 

 

The crew was silent now, losing some of their boldness when faced with her directly, swords and clubs going limp in their hands. No curses or insults fell from their lips now, all that bravado gone in an instant. Now that she was before them they were suddenly silent. 

 

“Slag, I think I heard? Whore? Something starting with a C?” She slowly walked the length of the corridor between the cells, peering at the occupants with interest, her fingers trailing the bars. Some of the men skittered backwards as she approached, others were less intelligent, sneering and snarling at her. “Were those pretty words for me gentleman?” 

 

She turned to Hook.

 

“And you pirate?” She was practically sneering, his blood freezing in his veins. “Anything to add?”

 

“N-no, milady,” he whispered, his throat closing as he found those eyes on them again. She was still looking at him, staring him down as if waiting for more of a response. Her eyes flickered across him with interest, touching each of his features in turn. He foundered, searching for something more, his eyes unable to meet her own.

 

“My thanks for getting us off the beach, it's much more hospitable here. Dry.”

 

It was a profoundly stupid thing to say, but it was the only thing he could think of in the moment: the truth. He was warm now and he  _ was  _ dry, the cell itself was clean. He hadn't seen what the fuss was about really. He had endured far worse before. And he didn't much care for the Captain anyway, a small spiteful part of him, buried deep, reveling in the fact that man who had spent decades torturing  _ him _ was finally getting his due.

 

Still, he knew the gesture wasn't meant as a merciful one, and the the last thing he wanted was for this terrifying woman to think he was mocking her. But his mouth had never quite connected fully with his brain it seemed, the words either falling from his lips unchecked or refusing to come altogether. 

 

And then she did the most amazing thing. 

 

She laughed. A genuine almost musical trill that filled the dungeon and echoed off the walls, at odds with her smoky rasp. Hook winced and shifted on the floor uneasily, unsure if this was a very good thing or a very bad one. Unsure if it was because of him or at him. He’d made many a woman laugh, it had yet to be for a good reason. He had yet to make a goddess.

 

“Stand up,” she ordered in the next breath. He scrambled to his feet, eyes still downcast, focused on the toes of her boots edging closer to the cell. He stood before her awkwardly, forcing his muscles to still, trying to calm the urge to fidget as her eyes raked over him like a physical caress. He could  _ feel _ them, traveling down his matted hair, his neck, his black shirt and vest stiff and crusted with sea water.

 

“Turn around,” came the next command and he obeyed instantly, spinning in place. She made a small humming noise in her throat, but he couldn't tell if it was good or bad.

 

“You’re the one who thanked me,” she said after a moment. “On the beach.” 

 

Hook remained silent, closing his eyes as she continued to silently stare at his back, anticipation making his skin crawl. 

 

“Come along then,” there was the squeal of metal on metal, the bars swinging free. Hook turned around in shocked surprise but she was already walking, heels clicking on the stone. He gaped for just a moment more at the open door, glancing at his crew, some afraid, some angry, most glaring at him as he hesitantly stepped out into hall. 

 

“I don't have all day,” the woman called over her shoulder. He gave one last glance to his crew, he didn't need telling twice, they had never cared a fig for him anyway, and Hook scrambled, hurrying after her down the twisting corridors of the dungeon. 

 

_____

 

He reminded her of a beaten dog Emma decided, watching the man seated before her nervously shift and fidget. A hand behind his ear, scratching rapidly before darting down to clench in his lap. Those startling blue eyes, wild and fearful, but never looking directly at her own. He flinched at every quick movement, jerked away at louder sounds. He licked full lips and rubbed his shiny metal hook against his pants, constantly in motion but trying to appear small and inconsequential. It was strange behavior for the scourge of the sea. 

 

Still, he was nice to look at, which was what had originally caught her eye: a sharp angular jaw, the dusting of dark well kept scruff, long feminine lashes framing ice blue eyes, teasing glimpses of firm muscle covered in light hair, the cords of his throat working as he swallowed nervously. It was such a study in contrasts, this beautiful man, his features arranged so enticingly, yet awkward and unsure of his every move. 

 

“What’s your name, pirate?” She asked after a moment. She lounged in a chair across from his own, watching him. He was fun to watch, doing nothing more than just sitting where he was bid. She found she liked making him nervous. He had tripped and shuffled anxiously behind her the entire journey through her castle, his shoulders slightly hunched, obeying her in an instant as she’d ordered him to sit in the high backed armchair, wanting to drink her fill. 

 

It was such a rarity to have someone who looked like he did, completely out of sorts from mere conversation. She had known many handsome men, many beautiful women in her centuries on this earth, though no one recently, but none seemed so completely unaware of their own allure. They had held themselves with a natural confidence, had seduced and simpered and played the game, they had taken work to break. Many had trembled in fear of her, of her power, of her rage, of the darkness’s constant insatiable hunger, they all feared her in the end, but this one seemed like he would have done so even without the threat of violence, her mere existence was enough to send him shaking. He seemed completely unaware of how he looked, and that in itself was a novelty. 

 

“Hook,” it came out as a whisper. 

 

“Is that a joke?” She eyed the appendage with a quirked eyebrow. 

 

The man seemed to sigh, a half shrug. 

 

“I suppose so,” he offered, still refusing to look at her. “That’s just what they call me.” He waved the hook in the air for a moment. “Cleverness is not a crew requirement.” 

 

It was almost a joke, almost cheeky, but he seemed to check himself, his eyes darting to the side as if they would hear the slight. Emma frowned. 

 

“And your real name?” 

 

“Killian,” he murmured so low she had to strain to hear him. 

 

“Killian.” She tried it out, liking the curl of it on her tongue. “How old are you, Killian?” 

 

He gulped, and gave the half shrug again.

 

“I don't know,” he seemed to think, desperately wanting to get the answer correct. “Thirty three? Perhaps?”

 

She didn't know her own age either to be honest, one century was much the same as any other, but that he, in his brief life, wasn't sure, seemed decidedly sad. It wasn't a new feeling, she was often sad, but not usually on behalf of another. The darkness hissed again, sad was not its favorite thing, but she ignored it, focusing on the man before her. He plucked at the leather of his pants, his hand trembling. 

 

“Do I make you nervous, Killian?” She wrapped her tongue around his name again, his eyes flickering briefly up to her own at the sound. She wondered how long it had been since he’d heard it spoken by another. 

 

“Y-yes,” he whispered and his eyes squeezed shut at the reluctant admission.

 

“Why?” Emma swung her legs over the arm of the chair back to the floor. 

 

“Well most things do, if I’m honest,” the words rushed out in a breathy self deprecating laugh, and he looked as if he instantly wanted to retrieve them. 

 

Emma stood, trying not to laugh herself. He was just so bumbling, and not because he was scared, she could tell that was just him, a natural state of being. He was so earnest, so honest, thanking her on the beach, gratitude in those blue eyes even if he was half drowned, asking her for nothing more, and then again in the cell, genuinely appreciative of his confinement. It was just so different. Others begged and screamed, some threatened and insulted, they were always the same, demanding, pleading, asking her for favors, trying to make deals. No one ever said thank you, no one ever just  _ appreciated _ . 

 

“So I'm not special then?” She teased, and stepped closer to him. 

 

“N-no I mean, y-yes you are, but I just,” he was struggling, stammering, and it was delightful, this handsome man, who had every physical reason to be cocky, unsure and anxious, tripping over his own tongue. “I'm not good at conversation.” He finished lamely. 

 

“That’s evident,” Emma said wryly. She stepped closer, watching him tense, his jaw fluttering enticingly as he clenched his teeth, the muscles in his neck flexing. She wanted to bite him. He was as physically pleasing as any man could be outwardly, her body responding instantly to him. But inside he was a mess, he would crumble if she gave into impulse and pressed her lips to his, gave into the urge to run her teeth along his neck. 

 

But she was a patient woman, centuries teaching her the pleasure of a slow and measured indulgence. And she knew what she wanted, the need curling in her belly as she had looked at him behind the bars of the cell, truly the picture of gratitude and appreciation.

 

She reached a hand out, her nails lightly brushing the strands of his thick dark hair, falling over his forehead, textured by the salt of the sea. He closed his eyes at the contact, trembling, lashes fluttering against his cheek. So fragile. How long had it been since he’d been touched?

 

“Are you scared of me?” She asked, the darkness hissing at her again, the question too vulnerable for its liking. She wanted to know. She needed to. She mostly wanted to see if he would tell her the truth.

 

“No,” he seemed as surprised by his answer as she was, no lie in his voice, a whispered statement and the barest shake of his head. 

 

“But I make you nervous,” she couldn't help the smile creeping into her tone, the darkness receding petulantly as something like joy filled her chest. 

 

“Oh yes,” he breathed out, the rasping tone stirring something else inside her, something lower and primal. In a different context the husky words would sound the same.

 

“Good.”

 

Emma stepped back to watch him for a moment more. He wouldn't look up, his eyes darting nervously, shifting in the chair at her closeness. She almost wondered if it was an act, a ploy, nothing about this man made sense. She wondered how she could find out.

 

_ Torture is always nice,  _ the darkness hissed, slithering in. 

 

The thought of putting her skills to work on this weak little man didn't hold quite the same appeal however. Emma pursed her lips considering. She took another step towards him, fitting herself between the splay of his legs. He gasped and straightened, sucking in air with a startled hiss, his legs falling open even wider to keep from touching her. He looked apologetic about even the briefest contact, as if  _ he  _ was the reason he had dared to touch her. 

 

She smiled, an idea taking form. She had just the thing in mind, to see if he was as he appeared, the most ancient and basic test she knew. 

 

Temptation. 

 

______

 

The tub was enormous, steam rising from water covered in pearlescent white bubbles. The largest he had ever seen, a far cry from the bucket and rag he had used for years, or the small copper hip baths and wooden tubs of the brothels, his meager coin used for a different sort of pleasure instead, since the female kind was so daunting. His mouth almost watered looking at it, the room muggy and warm, clinging to his skin which suddenly felt dirty and raw, sand and sea covering every inch. Why there was such an amazing looking bath before them he didn't know.

 

“What’re-” he turned to ask her what they were doing there, and swiveled immediately back around, ears and face burning as in one smooth movement her coat dropped to the marble floor. She was naked beneath it, all pale perfect skin, the barest glimpse before he whirled away of small full breasts tipped in pink, long smooth legs, tiny delicate feet, her boots gone, whisked away. His breath left him in a whoosh, closing his eyes as desire jolted through him. He had seen naked women before of course, he had, after all, spent most of his life off the ship with the crew in one whorehouse or another, but this was different, intimate and even in those dens of iniquity he tried to keep his eyes downcast, his attention elsewhere, their nakedness was never for him anyway.

 

“I desperately need a bath,” she said casually. He gulped and turned further, angling his body away as she dipped her foot into the steaming tub, the water tinkly and trickling. His hand clenched at his side, eyes squeezing closed. He wouldn't look, he was a gentleman, and she hadn't asked him to. The temptation however, was overwhelming, the brief flash of naked skin, long lines and curves, he would have to be dead not to be interested. But perhaps she was testing his resolve? He wasn't quite sure he wasn't dreaming, the abrupt changes in scenery, in mood, making him question his own reality. From storm to beach to dungeon, to watching a beautiful woman undress. His head was spinning.

 

“Torture is such dirty work, you know?” She murmured. He didn't, really only having experienced the receiving end, but he nodded anyway, eyes still squeezed tight. 

 

Her low moan as she sank into the water, that smoky satin voice enhanced by sinful delight and the thought of her wet and covered in soft white bubbles had him hard and tense in an instant. He tried to focus on his breathing, tried to angle his body in a way she wouldn't see how completely ridiculous he was. 

 

“Killian,” her voice was firm, and his eyes snapped open. “Come here.” 

 

His feet obeyed even though his brain was a muddle, bringing him closer to the tub, her pale skin turned rosy pink by the water, her body hidden beneath the thick layer of bubbles. That was a blessing at least. Or a curse. He wasn't sure, he couldn't think knowing she was completely bare and just feet away, inches now. She was a truly beautiful woman, the most beautiful he had ever seen, and he was Hook, the useless fumbling deckhand. And he was here, watching her bathe.

 

“The sponge,” she pointed at it with one slender foot, her leg rising, shining and perfect from the water to indicate a small yellow sponge on the edge of the marble. He reached for it, almost dropping it into the tub and thrust it out at her, trying to keep his eyes focused on the stone wall. 

 

She looked at him pointedly, and it took him a moment to notice, so busy not staring as he was, but her silence had him peeking down. She looked at the sponge and back at him, a silent command. His heart stopped. Surely she didn't mean?

 

But the woman laid back, not moving to take it, spreading out in the large basin, closing her eyes. He had his instructions. 

 

He kneeled awkwardly next to the tub, dipping the sponge in the warm water. This was fine, just like scrubbing the deck, he could pretend it was just like any other task. Never mind that his fingers were brushing soft supple skin, closer to this strange woman than he had ever been to any woman. 

 

She let out a small appreciative moan, her head laid back against the edge. He felt like he was going to burst, the water trickling over her skin, his hand making long measured strokes. She lifted her other arm, the sponge seeming to move on its own across her collarbone, and Killian leaned in closer, the sweet clean smell of the water and her skin filling his nose, reaching across to run it across the length. 

 

She seemed softer now, relaxed,the harsh angles and planes of her face smoothed and softened, her crimson lips curled into a small pleased smile as he dragged the sponge across her limbs. He tried to avoid anything particularly sensitive, moving from her arms to her neck, slender and curving, her shoulders delicately sloped with just the barest sprinkle of freckles. But she made a small reproving noise when he backed off, refusing to go lower. He hesitated.

 

“Killian,” she said, the unfamiliar name coming from her lips in that same indulgent tone sent another jolt straight between his legs. “Do you want to wash me?” 

 

The question seemed to surprise her, her brow furrowing. He couldn't figure why, but she was warring with herself, her eyes flickering. It was a completely different expression than her calm controlled demeanor so far. She almost seemed to be asking if this was okay. 

 

The circumstances were odd to be sure, sudden and surreal, one minute coughing up seawater on the beach, the next following around a woman he’d mistaken for a goddess. The alternative wasn't a nice one: stuck in a cell with a contingent of people who openly loathed him, or assist in bathing a devastatingly gorgeous woman with an apparent penchant for violence, for reasons known only to her. Perhaps a test of some sort, getting the measure of him. He wasn't all that good at tests. So the question became: back to the world he knew, or stay here in this room, playing a game that he may not know the rules of, or even if he wanted to win or lose, with a woman who for some reason he couldn't fathom, seemed to want him there.

 

It really wasn't a decision at all. 

 

He dipped the sponge again, the water warm on his hand, soaking the sleeve of his shirt as he found soft skin beneath the surface. Her eyes fluttered closed, the same breathy moan escaping her lips, as he moved lower.

 

He tried to be a gentleman, he really did, only touching her skin with the sponge, trying to remain clinical and precise with his ministrations. She’d told him to wash her not caress her, after all. But it was hard not to brush the soft and tender flesh as he worked, moving the sponge over her skin, feeling the planes of her stomach, the flare of her hips, dipping briefly into the space between her shapely legs. Every movement mapped her body in shapes and lines, burning it into his memory, his imagination and the brief flashing glimpse of her form filling in the blanks. He pressed painfully against the leather of his pants, strained against their confines, trying to find a way to hide the hard length should she open her eyes. He was no lascivious pervert, but he was not a saint either, and this was another form of torture altogether. Perhaps  _ that _ was the point? A different sort of torture for her to enjoy? Dirty work indeed.

 

“Hmm,” she stretched like a cat, water sloshing, and leaned forward so he could reach her back. Fine silver tendrils of hair had escaped the braided bun, sticking to the skin of her neck, and he used the tip of his hook to carefully brush them away, not wanting to pull or tug with the sponge as he scrubbed. He thought he felt her shudder with the movement, a small breathy gasp moving the bubbles as she leaned over them. 

 

He traced the ridges of her spine, more freckles there, spread out like constellations on her back. He traced them as he washed, pushing aside the urge to touch them with his hand. 

 

“O-okay,” he said, leaning back, his voice a broken rasp. “All done.” 

 

“Hmm,” she leaned back again, her eyes still closed. “A job well done should be rewarded.” She opened her eyes, almost black rimmed in green. He gulped. She looked like she was going to consume him. “Don’t you think?” 

 

His mouth opened and closed but he couldn't find any words, wanting to come up with something clever or even flirtatious, but his brain was traitor again, going completely blank. 

 

She rose from the water in one smooth movement, Aphrodite in her shell, and Hook scrambled away, whirling again to face the wall, his face burning.

 

“Towel,” she ordered. There was a stack of fluffy white linen on a small shelf. He reached for one, thrusting it behind him to keep from looking at her, imagining the water making paths down smooth white skin. 

 

“Now then,” she said, her rasping voice sounding almost cheery. “Your turn.” 

 

“My turn?” He asked incredulously, almost turning back around but checked himself at the last moment.

 

“Your reward,” she reminded him, there was the static crackle of magic behind him. “You can turn around now. I'm decent.” 

 

Decent is not a word he would have picked, the thin towel he’d given her gone, replaced with something silky and black, clinging to her curves and sliding across her skin, barely hitting her at mid thigh, her long legs peeking out the bottom. She was a petite thing, but most of it was leg he was sure of it. They seemed endless, a lifetime of seeing women in full frilled skirts, even if they were practically bare from the waist up, hadn't prepared him for so much leg. 

 

She waved a hand, a small smile on her face at his expression, and the water from the tub disappeared, replaced with fresh, hot and steaming, with a new layer of shining bubbles. 

 

“Good pirates get their treasure,” she murmured. Her hand toyed with the belt of her silk robe, and he was positive she didn't mean the bath. “Now go on, get in.” 

 

She waved her hand again, curling smoke revealing a white chaise lounge that filled most of the rest of the room. She laid across it, her head propped on her arm as she curled her body down its length. He avoided looking at those legs, knowing his face was probably as red as her lips already, struggling to breathe. 

 

She looked at him again, her eyes challenging. He closed his own, and went for the buttons of his vest. It was a clumsy awkward thing, he had never undressed in front of somebody before, his bathing quick and clothed when he found a rare private moment on the ship, or alone in his room at the brothels. He used his hook to steady his vest, his fingers feeling three times larger, the buttons refusing to give. He huffed in frustration.

 

“Do you want me to help you?” the woman asked. 

 

He nodded, knowing it was useless to try for words, blood pounding in his ears. He expected her to whisk them away with a flick of her wrist, braced himself for sudden nakedness, but she rose gracefully from the lounge, slinking across the marble floor like a predator, fixated on her prey. He swallowed reflexively. 

 

Her hands were small and nimble, making quick work of the buttons. He sucked in his stomach, held himself rigid as she worked, unsure if he could handle her touch. She didn't stop with the buttons through. She smoothed her palms underneath the fabric, moving them up towards his shoulders, brushing the open V of his shirt until the vest fell back to the floor, tugging on the black linen until it came free from his trousers. She lifted it above his head, raising up on tiptoes to accomplish the task, carefully not to snag the fabric on his hook.

 

Her eyes met his own, studying him, marking his reactions, and he couldn't remember how to breathe anymore as her hands worked their way back down, a small gasp breaking free as they grazed his nipples, curling slightly in the hair on his chest as they moved downward. They traced the lines of the muscles on his stomach, moved lower to the leather ties at the front. He almost cried out, barely stifling the noise as she loosened the laces, brushing where he was hard and firm in the confines of the leather, his cock twitching against his volition, biting his lip to keep from making any audible noise. 

 

Her mouth quirked up knowingly at the corner, jerking the laces free as she stared up at his face. He was frozen, captivated, his lungs burning to take a breath, but he couldn't seem to do it. Her thumbs hooked into the waist, sliding the trousers down slightly.

 

“There you go,” she murmured, and stepped away. He sucked in a lungful of air, his head light and swimming. 

 

“Thank you,” he croaked, voice failing him. Her brows furrowed briefly, her face going neutral before she turned away.

 

It took him a moment, frozen, staring at the wall before he could move again, the woman settling back into her seat with an amused lazy smile. 

 

He fumbled out of them, bending quickly and tried to kick them away, almost tripping over them in his haste. His hook tried valiantly to cover his arse, his hand doing its best to hide his length, over sensitive and raw as he brushed it, begging him for release. He could feel her perusing gaze on him as he freed himself from the wretched trousers, practically diving head first into the huge tub to cover himself. The water, was hot and perfect, his skin already flushed red from embarrassment and shame, turning a golden pink. He tried to stifle the groan, but the heat against his sore limbs was like heaven, his eyes fluttering closed.

 

“Good?” She asked. 

 

“Yes, thank you milady,” he breathed out gratefully, he was quite sure nothing in his life had ever felt this amazing. His bones were turning to liquid, the sharp soreness of his muscles becoming a dull pleasant ache. As he spoke she sucked in a breath of her own, sharp and quick. He opened one eye, risking a curious look. It was  _ hard _ to look at her, she was so beautiful, and he was so...him, and the images of her naked and wet were seared into his brain, but it was such an odd response in such a very odd situation. He glanced over. She had that expression again, as if she was trying to figure him out, a cautious interested curiosity replacing some of the unmasked heat. 

 

Feeling a bit bolder he went to speak.

 

“You,” he hesitated. “You never told me your name.” It seemed such a silly thing, learning her name _now._

 

“I am the Dark One,” she answered immediately, her face turning into something more neutral again, it seemed to happen quite a lot. As if she suddenly remembered other people could read emotions on her face. 

 

“Wash.” 

 

He obeyed, wondering if this was part of her test or truly just a reward, finding the sponge and setting to work, salt and sand falling away under the rose scented lather.

 

“Is that a joke?” He echoed their conversation from the library, her comments about his hook and his nickname, keeping his voice light, almost teasing. It was practically a fully formed jest, in the company of an actual woman, possibly a goddess, and his chest filled with pride at the rare quickness of his brain in the presence of another. When she looked at him confused he licked his lips with embarrassed nervousness, some of the pride deflating, she hadn't gotten it. 

 

“You’re just..very pale.” He said lamely. 

 

She couldn't seem to help the small laugh that came out at his response, her features soft once again, her cold eyes almost twinkling.

 

“Emma. My name is Emma.”

 

_____

 

It was almost a crime that he had no idea what he looked like. That he had spent,  _ maybe _ thirty three years on this earth and had apparently never been appreciated. It made her want to level cities. To set villages ablaze. The shame on his face brought on by years of ridicule and scorn made her want to snap the necks of everyone who had treated him poorly. It was obvious this was a learned behavior, kick a dog too many times and it will cower in fear over a pair of boots. Her own responses to him were the most interesting of all.

 

He was rough cut muscle hewn in flesh from years of hard labor. Scars twisted and roped along the planes of a truly spectacular back, no doubt from many meetings with a lash, and she wished she had plucked the Captain’s eyes from his skull. She knew enough about ship life to recognize who generally struck the blows. And based on his back Killian had his fair share of them. It was early yet though, the man still lived, plenty of time to make him suffer. The darkness added it to a list for later. 

 

Emma had had lovers before of course, scores of them, gorgeous men and women who strutted and preened, who knew their worth, who laid themselves out like so many gifts for her to unwrap. They had never tried uselessly to hide themselves with hand and hook, hopping clumsily out of their clothes, sloshing water out of a tub as they tried to get under cover. His face and his mismatched demeanor were a puzzle, and Emma liked puzzles. There was something about him she had to figure out. 

 

She had expected him to turn into someone else as soon as her robe fell, to many an open invitation. But he hadn't taken the fruits on offer, had tried to keep his eyes away from her body, his hands away from her skin. She could tell he desired her, his blue eyes blown black, hardness evident under his clothes. But he hadn't put a single toe out of line. 

 

And he was so appreciative, of even the smallest courtesy. His genuine thank you, voice raw with gratitude, the happy sighs and moans had her legs clenching, heat burning through her to her very core. 

 

_ Take him _ the darkness whispered.  _ He wants you _ . _ You can have him.  _  It tempted.

 

Not yet. He wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. He was as skittish as a new foal, that much was evident, and she didn't want him fearful and forced. That had never been her way. Better to keep him on his toes, keep him guessing, learn his desires, his whims. He liked her body, his hand was firm and sure, but beyond that she didn't know much.

 

She watched him, scrubbing his skin raw, delighting in the luxury with so much exuberant joy it made her heart pound. His self consciousness was almost forgotten in the confines of the tub, hidden and protected as he was by the layer of bubbles, except every so often when he would catch her eye, ducking his head, his face managing somehow to go even redder, the flush spreading down his chest, disappearing into the water with the fine trail of crisp dark hair. She wanted to trace that flush with her tongue.

 

Instead she curled onto her side, watching him scrub his hair, the thick strands lying flat and boyish on his forehead, filled with soapy suds. Men and women were often very simple for her to understand, they were one thing or another, complementary parts forming a boring and completely predictable whole. He was not at all predictable, the disparate qualities she had glimpsed so far, his responses to her little game, were not at all aligning, the pieces of his puzzles jagged and mismatched. People were never more themselves than when they had their clothes off, and so far this Killian was the same bare as the day he was born as anywhere else. She needed more information. 

 

“Have you always been a pirate?” She asked after a moment. “You don't seem-,” she tried to find a word. “-well suited to the job,” she said finally. 

 

He chuckled and shook his head.

 

“I'm not,” he said it with a laughing seriousness. “I was a wager, the losing end of it.” At her confused look he continued. She could tell he was embarrassed by the tale, but at her expression he continued on reluctantly. 

 

“My previous owner wanted to be rid of me, I was more trouble than I was worth you see, and Captain Silver tried to bet me in a hand of poker. Captain Blackbeard, that's the, uh-” he foundered for a moment. “-man you-” 

 

“Tortured?” Emma supplied helpfully.

 

“Aye, uh, yes, that. Captain Blackbeard didn't want me either, so they turned it around, whoever lost the hand was stuck with me.” He shrugged in the water. “Blackbeard wasn't as good at bluffing as he thought. He wasn't very happy.”

 

The very thought had the rage twisting in her belly, the darkness lapping it up like mother’s milk. She would rip the man’s skin from his bones, inch by inch for making this beautiful man feel that way. The darkness helpfully added it to the list. Emma went over his words.

 

“Your owner?” She questioned in alarm. Killian nodded, apparently untroubled by the word, dipping his head briefly in the water to rinse his hair. 

 

“Aye. I was on a merchant vessel before that, grain runs, rice, spices and such. Not a lot of experience with piracy. Any thievery was done on shore with the selling, right and proper.” 

 

“And they  _ owned _ you?” She asked incredulous. He blinked at her, confused.

 

“Aye,” he said slowly, as if he was afraid of misstepping, saying something wrong. “I was indentured to the ship. Had decades left on my debt which was transferred to Captain Blackbeard.”

 

“Your debt? What did you owe?” She was having trouble wrapping her brain around the very idea of one human owning another. She was not a free woman but her master was no man.

 

“Oh not me,” he let out a nervous laugh. “My father, he needed a boat so he traded me for one.”

 

“He needed...a boat,” Emma finished dully. Killian just nodded, his skin flushing again, this time in embarrassment. As if he had done something to warrant such a horrendous action. As if being traded for a boat was somehow due to his failings. 

 

The darkness swelled again, sensing vengeance, feeding on her anger. 

 

_ We could find him _ it said,  _ kill him too. _

 

“Is he still alive?” Emma asked innocently. “Your father?” She had trouble saying the word, her own father, centuries dead, had been a hero, a beautiful man taken far too soon, piggy back rides and bedtime stories every night, he would never do something so heartless and cruel to his own children. She pushed the memories aside, focusing on the rage instead, even though she knew she shouldn't. That's what the darkness wanted.

 

“No, he died years ago I heard,” Killian sounded sad, pained at the thought, and that made her angrier, his wasted remorse on someone who had used him so cruelly. What could possibly be sad about the death of a man who would do that to his own son. 

 

The darkness let out a mournful noise of possibilities lost, revenge unsated. It made her nerves burn, energy building under her skin, fire building in her belly. 

 

“Get out,” she knew she sounded snappish, angry at him, and he startled at the abrupt change in topic and tone, but obeyed, awkwardly reaching for one of the towels on the shelf, while still covering himself by the bubbles. He almost fell into the water, but he ultimately succeeded, snagging a cloth with the tips of his outstretched fingers. The endearing oafishness only made her angrier. A million emotions were whirling through her at once, the darkness laughing as it feasted, stoking the flames, feeding the fire. 

 

She had to do  _ something.  _

 

Killian cautiously got out of the tub, eyeing her warily, the cloth wrapped around his waist, skin shining and damp and lickable, water trickling between the hairs on his chest. Desire flared and flickered, adding to the fire. She could take him on the floor, run her tongue along the lean lines of body, scrape her nails down his chest. He reached for his discarded clothing, slightly damp from the sloshing water, almost falling over, and she shook her head. No, not yet.

 

“Leave them,” Emma ordered and waved her hand, the chaise and the clothes disappearing in a cloud of smoke. She whirled towards the door, knowing he would follow her without question and stalked from the room.

 

_____

 

He wasn't sure what he had said to turn her mood so suddenly, the viciously cold woman from the dungeon was back as they stalked through the cavernous halls of her castle. The back and forth, hot and cold made him dizzy, everything feeling surreal and intangible. But he didn't want to risk her wrath, so he just hurried after her, clutching the flimsy towel, his feet slapping against the stone. 

 

She led them to a plush dark room, every surface covered in white and black. A canopied bed dominated the space and Killian gulped, darting his eyes to her. 

 

“You’ll sleep here,” she said coldly. 

 

“Is this ah, where  _ you _ -?” He let the question trail off.

 

“I don't sleep,” Emma said shortly. She waved a hand, perfectly folded clothing appearing on the spread of the bed. “Get dressed, I’ll return for you when I'm done.” 

 

Killian knew better than to ask her, done with what, just nodded as she breezed from the room. He was just thankful to have clothes, and that if didn't seem like they would be sharing the massive bed. That was slightly disappointing to be honest but also, relieving. He didn't know if he would survive such a thing. 

 

If it was her room it was utterly devoid of any personal effects. No books, no trinkets, no paintings or jewelry. Everything was crisp and clean, plush and soft. There were more pillows in various shapes and sizes on the vast bed than he had seen in his life. It was a far cry from a shared hammock in a room full of men or flea ridden straw mattresses in a bawdy house. He dressed quickly, the clothing surprisingly similar to his own, a pair of well fitted suede trousers, a billowing white shirt, the opening cut deep. There was no vest though, and no shoes or socks. He pulled the clothing on with clumsy efficiency, lest she come back sooner than expected, then began a perusal of his new environment. 

 

She liked contrasts he noted, everything mixing shades of black and white, the two halves always clearly delineated. And comfort, everything was plush and decadent, soft and silk. But it was very impersonal. Even on the ship, with no true space to call his own Killian had personal effects, when he could manage to keep them hidden from the crew. Books and trinkets, small rocks from the places they went, things that were his. There was nothing of anyone in this room. Nothing to tell him anything of the strange woman who had apparently taken him in, for reasons still unknown.

 

The screams started again moments later, so muffled and faint he almost didn't know what they were, looking for the source. They were worse than before somehow, more pained, more intense, even dulled and faint. It made him uneasy, unsure of how he should feel. Captain Blackbeard had never treated him well, had done quite the opposite in fact, but something in Killian rebelled against the pain he heard in those screams, a quiet sympathy for another human soul. 

 

There was nothing  _ he  _ could do however. He was no one, a useless deckhand who couldn't even use a sword, much less ask a dark goddess to “maybe stop torturing people, if it wasn't too much of a bother?”. And it wasn’t as if Blackbeard was a good person. He had killed and maimed and tortured hundreds of people, delighted in a thousand horrific crimes, took women by force and killed children in their beds. He was not a good man. There were men who did bad things for good reason, men who did bad things and learned better, Blackbeard was neither. He was unrepentant and cruel, he delighted in pain, devoted his life to hurting. Perhaps this was just the universe exacting its price for a lifetime of villainy? After all fate had led them here, had directed the course of their ship, had sent the storm that brought them down, had led him to this room, had introduced him to this oddly compelling, exceptionally terrifying woman. 

 

Who was Killian to argue with fate?

 

_____

 

Emma felt much better after the man took one last rattling breath. All her rage and anger, her hate and pain, her unchecked desire, the confusion over a slurry of new unwanted emotions went with him. She sagged, spent, cursing herself for taking a bath too early, and magicked away the gore and grime of a job well done. 

 

Her stomach rumbled as she whisked the corpse away. She was absolutely starving. 

 

She twisted her hand, smoke curling around her as she willed herself back to her room, to the man waiting there.

 

Killian was perched on the bed, looking troubled but resigned, and started when she appeared suddenly at the foot of the bed. He scrambled off it, bowing low. 

 

“Milady,” he said softly, uncertainty and fear edging into his voice. She felt suddenly sorry, a foreign feeling that made the darkness roar with rage, she hadn't meant to make him scared of  _ her _ . Surely he realized what she was doing?

 

“Captain Blackbeard,” she said finally. “Is no longer your  _ owner _ .” She sneered the word with distinct distaste.

 

Across the room Killian froze, his eyes going wide. 

 

“But I-” he clapped his mouth shut, looking lost for a second, unsure. The sorry feeling unfurled further in her chest. Had she done the wrong thing? Is this not what he wanted? She had hoped he would pleased. People had sold everything they owned for such delightful vengeance, traded loved ones and precious objects to see their tormentors brought low. She didn't understand. 

 

She huffed, frustrated, and watched the emotions play across his face, so open and earnest, like a book you could read. Everything clearly mapped out on that handsome face.

 

He didn't look particularly aggrieved by the loss of the horrible man, but he did look as if he didn't quite know what to do. What he should feel. 

 

She had just been trying to help. Give him a gift. She hated feeling like she'd done it wrong. Handled it all wrong. 

 

“Since you've no ship, and no Captain,” Emma continued finally, wanting to explain, wanting him to understand. The darkness screamed at her, she could feel its rage in her chest as it told her no, she pushed it aside. “I find myself in need of a-” she didn't know the word to use. Servant? Assistant? None of them seemed quite right for the arrangement she had in mind. She didn't want him be her maid, or her minion, or some meaningless underling. She could take well enough care of herself, she had no need for any of those things.

 

She wasn't even sure what she was offering. She desired him yes, but her instant fascination with him was much more than just attraction to a pretty face. He was something to figure out, to learn, a newly presented problem of humanity when she’d thought she solved them all. Hundreds of years of people, all the shapes and sizes, the different personalities, desires and fears, and finally, after forever, something new.

 

“Companion?” Killian offered helpfully. He looked instantly like he wanted to shove the word back in his mouth, shaking his head to undo it. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply-” he waved his hand wildly, as if trying to snatch the words out of the air. 

 

“I wasn't being presumptuous, but if you’d like me to, I mean I w-would be glad, I mean, I’m not good for much, I'm dreadfully clumsy and I’m a terrible cook, I tend to make a mess of things but I-” Emma crossed the room in a few firm steps, pressing her palm against his mouth, his lips warm against her hand. 

 

“Companion is fine,” she said softly, firmly. Companion was perfect. Just someone who was here, someone to keep her company. She had been so long without company. Perhaps that’s what this was? She had wanted and she had taken, but she had yet to examine the reasons. She had been here for so long all alone, it was safer that way, maybe what she needed was a companion. Why  _ had _ she been alone for so long? She couldn't even remember.

 

_ Because you don't need company _ the darkness sneered.  _ It always ends the same _ . She ignored it, focusing on Killian’s face. 

 

He quieted at the press of her palm against his mouth, still frozen against her, blue eyes staring down at her, the length of her body pressing against his own. 

 

“You are free though,” Emma said firmly, her voice taking on a hard edge. She wanted to make that clear. He was not trading one owner for another. Emma knew all too well the meaning of enslavement, she wouldn't do that to someone else. She desired him true enough, had intentions for him if he was willing, but he was not a pet, nor was he a slave. 

 

“You don't  _ belong _ to me. If you want to go, you go? Understand?” With her hand still pressed against his mouth he could only nod, eyes widening at the implication, as if being free wasn't something he had considered. They blinked down into her, bright liquid filling them, and it took her a moment to realize he was fighting back tears. It had been so long since she’d seen them. 

 

The old fear rose up, the darkness whispering in her ear.

 

_ He’ll leave _ .  _ They all leave in the end _ .  _ He’ll run from you like all the others now that you’ve given him this gift. You should lock him up. Throw away the key. Tie him down and keep him forever. You have a dungeon full of prisoners dearie, what's one more? _

 

Emma shuddered, jerking her hand away as if his skin burned her, rubbing her palm on her coat. She turned slightly away, not wanting to see his face as he told her he was going. He was leaving. He had his freedom now, something he had apparently never known before if the dazzled confusion on his face, the red rims of his eyes was any indication. She couldn't look at him as he told her “Sorry. I just realized what that meant. If it's all the same to you I have places to be.” 

 

What came out of his mouth struck her like a physical blow, sending her eyes back to his face.

 

“ _Thank_ _you_ , Emma. I don't-” he struggled. “I don't know how to express how…” he gritted his teeth in frustration, trying to find the words. 

 

She knew he was no good with them, he had barely been able to string a full and complete sentence together so far. Her heart pounded as she patiently waited for him to find what he wanted to say, nails digging into her palms, that hopeful joy unfurling in her chest again. He had called her  _ Emma _ . The darkness hissed spiteful words as it retreated, drowned out by Killian’s own.

 

“I don't know how to express how bloody grateful I am,” he said finally. “But I'll try. I'm not good for much, I'm clumsy and I'm not good  _ at _ much..of anything really but I'll do the best I can, whatever you..  _ need _ .” He finished in a rush, the tips of his ears flaming. It wasn’t quite an innuendo but it was close. He was offering her something here.

 

“I feel like I'm meant to…” he trailed off, struggling again. “Be here? I'm not sure.” he huffed a confused laugh “It’s been a strange day.”

 

Emma wanted to clap her hands in delight, effervescent joy unlike any she has ever known shining in her chest, unchecked energy prickling at her skin, so different than the rage of earlier. It made her skin hum instead of burn, tingle instead of blaze.

 

Grateful. He was grateful. Hundreds of years of deals, of favors, of tit for tat and never once had anyone looked at her like this, naked gratitude shining in their eyes. And he kept doing it, thanking her, over and over, meaning every one. She liked the thank you’s. It had struck her on the beach and again in the cell: she was starved for thank you's. 

 

The darkness hissed again, one last parting thought before it surrendered to her hope. 

 

_ Enjoy it while it lasts, dearie, he’ll be like all the rest _ .  _ You’ll see. _

_____

 

Killian didn't know what being a “Companion” entailed exactly, the direction of his thoughts traveling into territories better left undisturbed, thoughts that made his cheeks burn at the images in his head. Surely she hadn’t meant  _ that. _ Not in his wildest dreams, though this certainly felt like one. It had barely been a day but his entire existence was new. A fortuitous accident leading to many a happy circumstance before he could catch his breath. A new world, whatever that might involve.

 

He didn't know her reasons, but he had followed many a path without knowing the why. His father left and he had a new master, a new set of responsibilities. His brother died and he was alone in the world, adrift and unprotected. He lost his hand and it was a completely different way of accomplishing the ordinary. A round of poker and before the rum was gone he had a new life of criminal pursuits under a new Captain and a new crew to abuse him. Things just happened to him, he rarely gave much thought to why, or how. Things changed for him overnight all the time, in an hour, with a word, a called bluff. This was no different.

 

Mostly, it seemed he would follow her around the sprawling castle. 

 

The kitchen was empty, so they were both spared his poor attempts at cookery, Emma preferring to conjure her food at a whim. She seemed to like traveling by foot, though he knew she didn't really need to, she could poof them around the vast castle with a blink of her eye, had moved his entire crew with a snap. He wondered if it was habit, like how he would reach out with his left hand automatically even though it had been a decade since he’d lost the limb.

 

She waved her hand, all manner of things appearing on the long table in the dining hall, hot and rich, the smells overwhelming and making his mouth water. It was a far cry from dry rancid meat and mealy hard tack, or greasy tavern stews and gamey hunks of overcooked boar.

 

Killian hopped to attention. Serving her seemed like something a Companion would do, and it was familiar to him. He grabbed a tray and a metal plate, balancing it precariously on his arm. He walked the length of the buffet, hesitating over every dish, peering over at her. She nodded at each that she wanted, and he carefully prepared the plate, praying to the Gods he wouldn't topple the entire thing and make an utter fool of himself. It was his first real job, save the bath he was decidedly not thinking about. 

 

He made a mental note of what she liked, she seemed to like the cheeses best of all, giving him a nod over every one, and fruits, some he had never even seen before. He carefully memorized them for later, vowing to learn their names. 

 

She gave him a small smile as he served her, barely anything spilled save for a few runaway grapes that had gotten the better of him and an unfortunately placed boat of gravy that had covered the floor until Emma had patiently whisked it away without batting an eye.  

 

Killian settled in a chair, his stomach rumbling. Emma frowned over at him looking at it pointedly. Killian flushed embarrassed, trying to cover it with his hook.

 

“Aren't you going to eat?” She asked. 

 

“Oh I-” he hadn't expected to eat  _ with _ her, at the same time as her. His meals were usually taken well after the Captain and Officers had eaten their fill, after the full share crew took their pick. He had never had first offerings. 

 

Emma motioned towards the food, losing some of her dangerous edge as she chewed and pointed. No one could be threatening with a mouth full of cheese. 

 

The thought made Killian smile softly as he grabbed a plate, somewhat overwhelmed by the mountain of food. He didn't even know where to begin with such a feast. Had never had the opportunity. He hesitated, unsure, the choice overwhelming, anxiety curdling his stomach. 

 

“Have the suckling pig,” Emma ordered. “The grapes and the strawberries. The new potatoes.” 

 

Relief flooded through him. He eagerly piled her selections onto his plate, the anxiety ebbing away, now he just had to concentrate on getting it to his place and eating it in front of her without looking like an idiot.

 

They ate in companionable silence, Killian sneaking looks every so often towards her. Her hair was back in its severe bun, and she had changed back into the coat. He couldn't help but wonder if she was naked beneath it, his cheeks flaming. He shoved a potato into his mouth to distract himself.

 

“Why do you keep looking at me?” Emma asked finally, setting down her fork. Killian flushed again. 

 

He couldn't very well tell her he was imagining what she wore beneath her coat. He may be a dunce about women but even he knew that wasn't generally well received. So he rattled off the next most pressing question. 

 

“What exactly does being a Companion...entail?” He asked hesitantly. Emma's face was a mask as she looked at him, considering the question.

 

“I don't know,” she said finally. “What do you  _ think _ it entails?”

 

Killian puffed out a breath, leaning back in his chair. He had no bloody idea. 

 

“I have no bloody idea,” he said finally deciding to just go with his tendency to blurt. “I just, want to do what you need me to do?” It wasn't the most elegant of answers but it seemed to do the trick, a small smile appearing on Emma’s face. 

 

She pushed herself away from the table, standing. Killian swallowed as she made her way to his side of the table, her eyes dark. 

 

“ _ Anything  _ I need you do?” She asked, the smoke tinged voice wrapping around him like a blanket. He closed his eyes, his lap tightening despite himself at her words. 

 

“Anything,” it came out as a whisper, far breathier than he intended. Emma was before him now, turning his chair to face her as if he weighed nothing. She was impossibility strong. Which should be scary, she could break him like a dry branch, but he found it oddly comforting. She stared down at him, her face serious. 

 

“Killian,” his name on her lips still shocked him. She used it so often, and he had rarely heard it in his life. Not since his brother had passed. Even in his own head he tended to call himself Hook. 

 

“I need you to know I'm not forcing you to do  _ anything,”  _ her emphasis on the word left her meaning unmistakable. “It has to be your choice.” She said finally. “Whatever we do, or don't do, you’ll always have a choice.” 

 

It might not have meant much to her, that small inconsequential word, but Killian reeled as if he had been struck, grasping the arm of the chair to steady himself. He had never had a choice. He never had freedom of his own. To take and do as he willed, to go where he wanted, to take what he desired. It was overwhelming. And frightening. Very frightening. His mouth worked to find words, cursing himself for his bloody ineptitude at stringing together basic bloody sentences. 

 

“I just-,” he took a deep breath in, Emma looking down at him patiently. “I sensed we might be able to become….close? Potentially?” He stammered on, darting his eyes away, afraid to see the expression on her face. 

 

_ Coward _ his mind spat at him.  _ It’s an awkward bloody conversation _ he spat back.

 

“Yes, we might be able to become  _ very  _ close,” she was almost smiling. “Potentially.” 

 

“I just-” he wanted to scream in frustration. He was no good at this, damnit. His experiences with women were usually reserved for their amusement and ridicule. He didn't know if he could take that from  _ her _ . “I’ve never, been a  _ companion _ before. Never had the opportunity. I scrub decks, I empty the bilge, I serve meals and do my best not to spill them,” he let out a nervous laugh. “And I don't want to disappoint.” 

 

“So we’ll take it slow,” Emma actually shrugged, the movement too casual in her leather coat, her severe bun and no nonsense blood red lips. It was almost girlish, an innocent gesture, perhaps leftover from before she’d become The Dark One, whatever that meant, he still didn't know, like her walking everywhere.

 

He still wasn't quite sure what she was offering, if it was more than just being here to entertain her, or something else. He was afraid to ask. 

 

“I know I'm-” she looked down at herself, seeming unsure. It both thrilled and terrified him, that small self conscious gesture. She was so in control, so measured, the thought that she might be as lost as he, even for just a moment, shook him. He had been thinking of her as a goddess, and perhaps she was, he didn't truly understand her power, what she was exactly, angel, demon, something in between, but that small shrug confirmed for him she was also just a woman under all that. 

 

“Scary.” She finished finally. “But I won't force you into anything, like I said before, it will all be your choice, Killian.” 

 

“My choice,” he tested the words. They made him feel almost powerful. Almost brave. His choice. He looked up at her, her face guarded, her eyes shuttered, but he could see a glimpse of her uncertainty, her trepidation as she waited for him to respond. She looked like she could conquer the world or be knocked over by the slightest breeze, swaying on the edge of something. 

 

Killian smiled, his face feeling like it could split from the pure elation he felt. How odd this day had become. How quickly things changed here on this strange island. 

 

“I can work with that.” 

 

_____

 

“Did you build this castle?” Killian asked. 

 

He was so intensely curious, taking in every thing in every room they went through. Emma had felt a tour would be beneficial, considering he was staying for the time being. 

 

He also liked to touch. His hook raked the stones as they walked, fiddled with things on shelves, drapes rubbed between his fingers and glass smudged by his hands. He knocked things over a lot she noticed, his face flushed red more often than it's natural tan, apologies his most oft spoken words. He tried to rub away his prints with the elbow of his shirt, and set things to right that were bowled over in the wake of his chaos. 

 

Her life was so orderly, so precise, so quiet, and he was like a hurricane blowing through each room. He noticed things she had long forgotten, murmured the titles aloud of books she had never read, and in every single room marveled over the view of the sea, visible from every window as if seeing it for the first time.

 

Emma realized he had asked her a question, so wrapped up in her observations she had missed it.

 

“What?” 

 

“This castle?” He ran his fingers down a stone wall. “Did you build it?” 

 

“Inherited it,” she said. “It comes with the job.” 

 

“Job?” He seemed to be testing the word out, looking at her curiously. Emma felt the fear creep back in. It was too early for this. 

 

“Yes, job,” she said shortly, her tone making it perfectly clear he was to question no further. 

 

His mouth snapped shut, ducking his head, the next question dying on his lips. That sorry feeling returned, the hollow ache in her chest. He was so fragile, so breakable, and while he may be clumsy and oafish in the physical world, she was clumsy and oafish in the verbal. Too short, too firm, too frightening, knocking over feelings, bowling over curiosity and leaving smudges on regard. 

 

“This castle has been around for thousands of years,” she said finally. “I've had it about 300.” His eyes widened at the implication.

 

“So you’re…” he trailed off. 

 

“Immortal?” Emma offered. 

 

“So you  _ are  _ a goddess,” he said, almost to himself. Emma blinked at him startled. 

 

“What?” She had heard many descriptions of herself but that was not usually among them. Demon, Devil, Curse, Plague, Angel of Death. Those she was familiar with. 

 

“On the beach,” he said cheerfully. He opened a music box on the mantle, a loud tinkling song issuing forth, making him jump. He snapped it closed, flushing. “That’s what I thought you were.” 

 

“I'm not a goddess,” she said. The word made her uneasy. It implied a certain responsibility over the world, a specific set of duties she had never fulfilled. Demon was much more appropriate. 

 

“You have magic,” he pointed out. 

 

“Lots of people have magic,” she countered. “Most of them use it for stupid things.” 

 

“You’re immortal,” he tried again, ticking the second point off on his hook like a hand. 

 

That threw her a bit. 

 

“I'm sure lots of things are immortal,” she couldn't think of any immediately, her mind going blank. “Vampires!”

 

“Are they real too?” His eyes widened, a little bit of awe, a little bit of fear. 

 

Emma truly didn't know, she had never encountered one, only rumors, but the look on his face had her giving him an enigmatic smile instead. 

 

“You save people,” he tapped his hook again as if to check off another digit. Emma froze midstep.

 

“I do what?” 

 

“Like me, on the beach, that was you wasn't it?” He said it casually, but she could tell he truly wanted to know. She had, actually. Seeing him there, still and cold in the moonlight, the light playing over his perfect features, like a beautiful sculpture washed ashore, and she had just acted, pressing her lips to his, breathing in life for death. It was like waking a beautiful piece of art.

 

She didn't answer so he pressed on.

 

“And me crew, you gave them shelter.” 

 

“I put them in a prison,” she said dryly, continuing to walk on to the next room, another sitting room. She had never realized she had so many sitting rooms.

 

“Inside,” he countered easily, barely catching an empty vase knocked over by his hip in time, the flowers long gone.

 

It still baffled her that he was so appreciative of even the barest necessities, the most basic things. He took nothing for granted. Confinement was a consequence of shelter, imprisonment a necessary evil if one wanted regular food and a place to sleep. These things were just normal to him, punishments for most were regular parts of his day. 

 

It made her incredibly sad. Her life had been good to a point, and then it had been very, very bad, but she had never wanted for creature comforts. She’d always had a roof over her head without condition, well prepared food to eat that wasn't unwanted scraps, a place to sleep that was hers, on the rare occasion she indulged in that unnecessary activity, pleasures of the body if she wished. She could conjure a meal with a blink, and had more rooms than she could remember.

 

“You mete out justice,” he said after a long silence, softly almost like he didn't want her to hear him. “Like with Captain Blackbeard.” 

 

“I tortured him for insulting me,” she reminded him. 

 

“At first,” he didn't say anything else, just walked to the large windows filling the wall, staring out at the sea, the waves breaking against the rocks.

 

“The view here really is incredible.” 

 

_____

 

Killian couldn't sleep. All things considered he should be dead to the world before he hit the pillow, the day twisting and long and strange. But instead he stared at the ceiling and thought of Emma.

 

She had been quiet the rest of the evening, leading him from room to room of the massive estate without much commentary beyond telling him the purpose of each. He had never been in a home before, not one that wasn't dedicated to pleasure based pursuits, houses where every room was a bedroom, briefly used before the next customer came in, the sheets still warm and wet from the clients before, everything and anything for sale. Emma had libraries and dining rooms, sitting rooms and conservatories, the large tub he had been so awed by was one of several. 

 

She seemed to “live” in just a few of them, the rest clean but undisturbed, forgotten and mostly bare. She looked at things in her own home as if she had never laid eyes on them before, forgotten things she hadn't seen in decades. It boggled his mind the size of it, making him feel smaller, inconsequential. She had more books in one library than he had ever seen. Had lived ten times his life before he was even a thought. She could level cities on a whim, set fire to the entire world if she chose. 

 

None of this made any sense to him. He was useless, less than useless. A poor excuse for a deckhand onboard a ship of the vilest degenerates around. He had no skills, no education, he could read and write but not much more, he couldn't even carry on a bloody conversation for Gods sakes. Emma’s fascination with him, that cold perusing interest, the heat in her eyes, was at odds with the order of the universe. 

 

It both thrilled him and terrified him. No one, woman or man, had ever stared at him with such naked intensity and curiosity before. They alighted on his face, his body, and finding it contained nothing more than a clumsy dullard moved along.

 

She had so much, had lived so long, what happened when he was no longer so fascinating, when he was no longer a silly curiosity? His utility was finite and fragile.

 

What did the Gods  _ do _ with their discarded playthings?

 

Frustrated, he shoved away the blankets, cool and softer than any he had known, the still silence of the castle where there should be the raucous bawdy noises of the crew, the loss of the rock and sway of the ship, a soft mattress where there should be hard digging rope, he couldn't handle any of it right now. 

 

Emma had been very clear he could go where he liked, there was no room off limits, no area of the castle he wasn't free to explore. Still he felt like an intruder, wandering the corridors like a thief in the night. She kept the castle well lit, which was a blessing, torches lining the corridors, fires and candles in every room. He didn't know if it was for him, or something she had always done. There was no way in the realm he would ask, admit to her he couldn't stand the darkness, that was even more embarrassing than throwing up next to her boots, but a small part of him wondered if she maybe didn't like the dark either. 

 

He found her in her “workroom” a small space they had visited briefly, containing only a long table covered in an odd assortments of sticks and shells and twine and a chair. She had not specified what it was she worked on, given no explanation for the odd hanging circles that filled the rest of the room. She was there now though, bent over one of them, wrapping twine in an intricate design, a small bit of pink tongue poking out of the side of her mouth as she frowned in concentration.

 

He smiled as he watched her for a moment, totally absorbed in her task, until he felt like a voyeur, a creeping pervert hovering in the dark. He rapped on the stone with his hook. 

 

Emma whirled, dropping the object, her hand flying reflexively out at him, arm outstretched in defense, it glowed a shimmering gold for a moment and then faded back to pale white. He flinched, throwing up an arm and stumbling backwards, waiting for a blow that never came. It was a small mercy he kept his footing, embarrassing enough he’d startled her without also falling on his arse.

 

“Killian!” She flew from her chair. “What are you doing?” 

 

He lowered his arms, feeling his face burn. 

 

“I ah-” he ran a hand through his hair. “I couldn't sleep, and I know you said you don't-”

 

“I could have killed you!” She sounded enraged, her throaty voice hard and angry. He flinched again. 

 

“A-apologies, I didn't think-” he shrugged helplessly, the stammer returning. Her face softened a bit, still cold, but gentler. 

 

“I'm not used to having anyone around,” she admitted gruffly. “I forgot you were here.”

 

It was possibly the worst thing she could have said, his anxious nighttime musings now a verbal reality. It was already happening. The moon hadn't even left the sky and already Hook was an afterthought. It had taken a bit longer this time but not by much.

 

He felt stupid even thinking it, some part of him knowing she had to get used to him, he had no idea how long she had been here in this huge castle alone. But logic didn't make things born of fear just go away. He knew logically, there was nothing in the dark, nothing more than a child’s fears and doubts, it didn't mean he liked it more. 

 

He swallowed, gave a pained fleeting smile and backed away, his hand scratching nervously at his ear. Emma frowned at him from the table. 

 

“I should-” the glanced backward, pointing with his thumb behind his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it.” He finished, backing from the room. 

 

“Killian, wait,” Emma stepped out into the corridor but he had a decent lead. She could whoosh before him in an instant, stop him cold with barely a glance, but he kept going, walking briskly down the corridor to his room, practically running. Her request wasn't an order, he knew the difference, the tone was all wrong. And she made no further move to stop him. 

 

Killian reached the room she had given to him, unsure whether it was his or hers, panting and out of breath, part exertion, part anxiety and leaned against the door, closing his eyes. 

 

“Did you really think you could outrun me?” 

 

His eyes snapped open. She was lying on the bed, her legs crossed in front of her, all lazy casual elegance. She looked unsure for a second. 

 

“I didn't mean that as threatening as it sounded,” she amended after a moment. 

 

“I know,” he croaked out, clearing his throat, inwardly cursing his voice for betraying him so readily. 

 

“I didn't mean to scare you,” she had that look again, where she seemed to be arguing with herself, her eyes darting wildly, jaw clenching. He hadn't quite figured that one out. She seemed almost reluctant to say the words. Like something was trying to stop her from saying them. 

 

“You didn't,” not in the way she thought. He hadn't feared she would  _ hurt _ him that moment, not physically anyway. 

 

“Did you know-” she rose from the bed in one smooth motion, her boots settling on the floor. “That everything you think is written all over your face?” 

 

She began that slow predatory slink, the one that made his heart pick up, his blood sing. That look like she could devour him whole as she moved across the room. He would let her. He knew that. 

 

“Is it?” His voice cracked a bit, the traitorous thing. He swallowed again. 

 

“Yes, like reading a book,” she stopped in front of him, her thighs pressing against his own, chest to chest. She reached up, a finger tip barely brushing the skin next to his eyes, one nail slowly tracing down his cheek.

 

“All the words written right here-” she moved lower down his face, stopping briefly at the clench of his jaw, her fingertips brushing the scruff. It sent a shiver down his spine, straight to his groin, this simple touch making him hard and taut, nerves sparking. “-and here.” She whispered. Her fingers moved over to the place where his lips joined, her fingers drifting across lighting across them. “And especially here.” 

 

“W-what do they say?” he asked, struggling for breath. He was practically bloody panting, his mouth dry, and she had done nothing more than touch his face. 

 

“That you are frightened of something,” she said lowly. “Something to do with me.” 

He went to speak, to protest, but her hand covered his mouth again, palm warm. His lips tingled from the touch. 

 

“But that you aren't lying when you say I don't scare you,” her eyes flickered back and forth between his own. “I can read the words but I don't know what they mean, Killian.” 

 

She took her hand away. 

 

“I'm not good at words,” he said. 

 

“Try,” this  _ was _ an order, the tone all right this time. He felt his eyes flutter close, his mind working to find what he wanted to say. 

 

“You told me,” he started. “That I had a choice. If I ever wanted to go, I could go.” It was easier to echo back her words to start, but he could see that was a mistake immediately. She took a step back, her eyes shuttering, hands moving to grip her elbows across her chest. 

 

“No!” He took a step forward, reaching out with his hook. “I didn't mean-, argh!” He ran an angry, agitated hand through his hair. For once in his life, he would like to just be able to say what he needed to say without it coming out all  _ wrong.  _ He spoke faster, hoping his mouth would be moving too quickly to allow his brain to stall him.

 

“It goes both ways. If you don't want me here, if you  _ want _ me to go. If I am no longer of use to you. If you no longer need me. Tell me. Send me away,” he sucked in a breath, watching her sag momentarily in relief, a brief movement before the mask was back, her spine straight, eyes hard again. 

 

“Okay,” she echoed back his statement from the dining room. “I can work with that.” 

 

______

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to caprelloidea who let me be a needy mess looking this over for me and offering really excellent insight. I love you a lot okay?

_____

 

The hardest part of the day was the dawn. The sun cresting the edge of the water, a small glow growing brighter on the horizon, the colors of a new morning filling the sky. She watched every daybreak, her own private penance, the darkness hissing and clawing the entire time. It loathed this indulgence. It dealt in death and pain, not the hope of a new day dawning. It was a quiet rebellion watching the sun rise, the world coming to life. 

 

When she was younger, before the darkness, she had missed almost every one. Her family had teased her endlessly over her love of sleep, the difficulty that came from trying to wake her, her sneaking away for afternoon naps when she should be minding her lessons. When Aunt Aurora visited it was even worse, teasing jokes and spindles left by her breakfast plate. Her brother playing Prince Charming, tiny lips pressed to her forehead. Now she rarely slept, she didn't need to, going years without it, the accompanying nightmares making it a distasteful thing, if she had any fear left in her it was reserved for sleep. 

 

“Oh,” the whispered breath by her side startled her out of the memories. For such a clumsy man he was remarkably good at sneaking up on people. She supposed it was a consequence of trying to go unnoticed, a measure of protection. She had been alone for so long she’d forgotten to expect people, it was so rare to be sought for company alone, and even then she had never had anything to fear, not from anyone else at least. He had succeeded again in surprising her, but she was at least more prepared this time, her awareness of him stilling her arm before her mind caught up that he was there. 

 

“Don't you sleep?” She was a bit more harsh than she intended, gripping her arms to hug herself, keep herself contained. “I seem to remember people needing sleep.”

 

“I did a bit,” he rubbed the back of his head, not at all put out by her tone. She imagined he had heard worse, and the sorry feeling returned, a faint twisting in her chest.

 

“Habit I suppose,” he gestured out to the sunrise, looked out of the huge windows of the conservatory, the entire wall and roof nothing but clear glass filled with orange and pink light.

 

“Oh! I can...go?” He seemed to realize he might be intruding, his feet already backing away before she could answer, his head bowing in apology, but slowly, measured, as if he hoped she’d call him back.

 

“No.” This too came out harsh and forceful, lifetimes of coldness weren’t banished in a day after all, and he froze immediately. Emma sighed, willing herself to relax. “It’s fine. I've seen a hundred thousand.”

 

He reeled a bit at that information, blinking away the truth of her long life, mouth gaping, doing the math. It made her uncomfortable, and she itched to know how he felt about the unyielding and cruel facts of her long lived and immortal life.

 

“Good thing they’re all different then,” he said after a moment, smiling cheerfully. It dimmed a bit at her face, impassive and neutral, watching the pale pink light play over him. He continued on in a rush. “I mean, the colors are different every day. And sometimes there's birds.” 

 

“Sometimes there's birds,” Emma repeated slowly. 

 

He flushed, his eyes squeezing briefly closed in embarrassment. He rubbed at the back of head, the hair there sticking up in sharp little tufts, already matted by his pillow. He was endearingly sleep rumpled. If she wasn't there she was quite sure he would have smacked himself in the face. She gave him a small wry smile to let him know she was teasing. He only flushed deeper and turned to more fully face the glass. The smile grew.

 

“May I-may I go down to the beach later? To see the wreckage..of my ship?” He seemed reluctant to ask her, nervous, as if she would refuse him. He didn't look at her as he asked, watching the sunrise. The smile dropped.

 

“I said you could go where you wanted. Did you not believe me?” She was angrier than she would have liked, rubbed raw from memory, all these new or rather, old, emotions, her words coming out biting and hard. She didn't expect him to necessarily trust her, their time together had been so brief, a day and a night, though it felt like longer, and she  _ had _ killed an acquaintance of his, but she also thought she was very clear, he was no prisoner, she couldn't do that to him. He had been a prisoner for too long already. The darkness licked its lips. Her eyes flashed, nails digging into her arms.

 

“No I-,” he looked at her wide eyed and just as quickly turned away embarrassed. “I wondered if...you might, if you aren't busy, I don't know what you do during the day, I'm sure it's probably quite important, but if you wanted to-” he was babbling, his eyes widening like he knew that, but couldn't stop himself. 

 

“Killian,” Emma said firmly, bringing him up short. He nodded gratefully at the interruption, lashes fluttering, and took a deep breath. 

 

“I thought maybe you could accompany me?” It came out in a rush, and it was only a row of lush green plants, set in their wooden beds behind him that kept him from skittering away from his own question, as if he wanted to be physically as far from it as possible once it was out in the world. He reached back to keep from falling over, his hand sinking into black soil. Emma had to turn her head to keep from laughing, her ire gone in an instant as he shook the dirt away. 

 

The darkness laid back down, resentful. 

 

“Sure,” she said amused. “After breakfast we can go down, and I need to see to my... guests.” 

 

“Guests?” He looked up confused, then seemed to realize she meant the prisoners, his hopefully former ship mates. Killian looked a bit uneasy at their mention, whether because of the thought of the crew themselves or what she had in mind for them, Emma didn't know. She watched him struggle for a minute, “What are-” he cut himself off immediately, reading her face. She finished the question mentally, receiving her own answer in turn to what truly bothered him. Her chest filled with ice. 

 

“I'm going to feed them,” some of the elation she had felt at his awkward request to join him on the beach dimmed, replaced by sharp annoyance. “I'm not a total monster.” She was, but he didn't know that. Shouldn't know that. Would  _ never  _ know that. 

 

“No-I didn't-” he shook his head.

 

Looking at him, unable to speak, from his own inherent nervousness or something else, she felt the darkness lift its head, smelling opportunity, slithering around her heart, settling into that cold and hollow space. It was too much, her memories, his sudden presence, his unyielding timid fear of her. He’d said he wasn’t scared of her, that he  _ didn't _ fear her, yet here he was, practically trembling from a look. 

 

_ He thinks you’ll kill them, _ the darkness whispered, cruel but honest.  _ Now, why would he want them alive? They hurt him, made him like this. Who could forgive such a thing?  _

 

Emma closed her eyes, the sun too bright, Killian’s face too open and apologetic. 

 

_ What’s he playing at? What does he need them for? They always have a plan, dearie. You know that. You have to be ready for it. _

 

Her fist clenched at her side, nails digging into flesh, lifetimes of betrayal played across her mind. Hadn't she been weak before, hadn't she trusted before? 

 

The glass rattled in its panes and she heard Hook breathe in next to her, quick and distressed.

 

She had vowed never again, but then this man had washed up on her beach, beautiful and broken, like a gift from the sea. 

 

The rows and rows of lush green plants behind them tremored and shook, leaves trembling as rage boiled up, the crackle and hiss of magic filling the air. 

 

The darkness laughed.

 

He was supposed to be  _ different,  _ he seemed so new, but he could be exactly the same. Wasn't that the purest truth of all humanity? They were all, every one of them, exactly the same. 

 

A ceramic pot vibrated off a shelf, shattered and broke on the floor, the tinkling melody of destruction, the same as the song in her soul, and it snapped her eyes open. 

 

Hook looked as if he had been struck, wide eyed and fearful, still glowing orange and pink in the sunlight. The fright in his face, those wide blue eyes, only made the anger grow. Maybe he  _ should _ know she was a monster. He swallowed, reaching out his hand.

 

“Emma, I’m-”

 

She didn't feel like waiting for his mouth to catch up, didn't know what she would do if she did, hated that he knew her name, so she just turned from the view of the sunrise, the sun now a golden orb over the water, and walked from the room.

 

_____

 

Less than a day and already he had offended her. It wasn't near a record though, he could sometimes manage the feat in a single sentence, but this one was worse. He truly hadn't meant to hurt her, or anger her, whichever he had done, they were inextricably linked, one and the same. He felt like he was walking in a room filled with precious breakable glass, unsure of where it was safe to step, crashing into entire shelves and toppling them whole. 

 

He trailed after her, not because it was necessarily the safest thing to do, her steps pounding and angry on the stone, but because he was at a loss as to what he  _ should _ do. She didn't look at him as they entered the dining room, waving an arm to fill the table with the day’s fare with a short jerk. It amazed him, all this bounty with barely a thought, that she could move the very foundations of the earth while remaining perfectly still, that she had seen more sunrises than some lands had people. It was thrilling and terrifying, the scale and enormity of her, so much contained in one slight woman. 

 

Killian barely hesitated, his movements automatic, grabbing the tray and the plate before she could move towards them. 

 

“You don't have to serve me,” she snapped, moving to grab them.

 

“Please,” he clutched the metal tray closer to him, awkward in his arms, as if he could possibly stop her if she truly wished to have them. His heart stuttered, he didn't mean it as defiance, quite the opposite, but this was still new, fragile and breakable, and she might not recognize the difference. His life would be so much easier if he could express himself in pure intent and desire rather than words and gestures.

 

Thankfully, she did stop, her cool gaze running over his face. Killian had never met a member of royalty, but he imagined they looked a lot like this, straight backed and imposing, physically overwhelming despite her smaller stature. 

 

“You  _ aren't _ my servant, I can take care of myself,” he couldn't help but flinch a little at her tone, imperious and regal, cold as ice, freezing in his veins, his grip automatically loosening to obey her. 

 

“I know, but this is-” he sighed, agitated, trying to find the right word. “This is familiar.” 

 

He didn't realize how true it was until he spoke it aloud. He wasn't used to any of this. He had awoken this morning alone, in a strange bed, sinking into luxury, with no purpose for the day, no Captain to serve, no duties assigned. He had spent every moment of every day of his bloody life it felt like accomplishing the tasks of others. He didn't have any of his own. Even their brief journeys ashore, what should be his leave, had him fetching drinks and finding the crew willing whores, dragging drunken men home on his back. Other than the rare moment he stole to read a pilfered book, buy a lonely bath instead of company, or look at the stars just because no one could stop him, he’d never had something of his own to do. Going down to the beach to comb the wreckage was the first thought he’d had, an attempt to see what of his old life was salvageable, a physical reminder that this was real, that things  _ had _ changed. 

 

He wasn't sorry exactly, he didn't miss it certainly, the novelty of freedom was still burning brightly in his chest,  _ potentially _ hanging somewhere in a nebulous future, but his fingers were itching, his brain a jumble. He was untethered and anchorless here. He needed something of a purpose, a course to chart as it were. Even if it was something as silly as serving a meal.

 

Emma’s face softened fractionally, a blink and you missed it relaxation near her eyes. They still burned bright and cold into his, and he imagined she could probably see into his very soul. Was that a power she possessed? He feared what she would find there, possibly unworthy to the very core, worthless and dispensable to the basest parts of his being.

 

She didn't speak, just nodded once, and went to her place at the table. 

 

Her nods this morning were more curt, her body rigid, as he moved over the fare. He wanted to apologize, to correct her misinterpretation. He didn't think her a monster, on the contrary she was the kind of woman who could keep the monsters at bay. She was strong and powerful, self assured and confident, an avenging angel, punishing the unworthy, freeing the downtrodden, giving a worthless wretch a chance. 

 

Hook could tell her none of this though, the words would come out wrong, he knew this. He had destroyed enough this morning, the sun barely in the sky before he laid waste to what they had built with his useless mouth. So he crafted his apology with the fruits he knew she liked, arranging them as prettily as he was able with poor balance and one hand, a flower plucked from a vase on the table laid next to the silver metal plate, an apology in pink petals. 

 

If Emma noticed the extra flair she didn't comment, just nodded her thanks and gave a pointed look at his own plate, making sure he knew he could eat as well. It still felt strange, not only dining with another instead of ducking the snatching hands of his crew, shoving food into his mouth in shadowy corners where it couldn't be stolen, but with a beautiful woman, an overwhelming variety and abundance within his reach. He took the plate and walked the length of the table, back and forth, eyeing her in his periphery, hoping she would hear his silent plea. 

 

“Eggs, some of the bacon, kippers, and…” Emma seemed to think a moment, looking down at her own plate. “Strawberries.” 

 

She wasn't smiling but he could almost hear it in her throaty voice if he listened hard enough. He had spent a fair bit of time arranging the strawberries. He bit down on his lip to keep the delighted grin from splitting his face, looking down so she wouldn't see. He wasn't some besotted schoolboy, he could at least attempt some manly dignity. Still, there was a boyish spring in his step as he piled her selections on his plate, heart a bit lighter. She  _ had _ noticed. 

 

They ate in silence, slightly uncomfortable, the weight of his careless words hanging over every bite, every stolen glance, almost all of them his. Emma was staring at nothing, her face an unreadable mask. Some of his delight ebbed, the memory of shattered ceramic, soil spilling over the floor, it still wasn't right, he had still made a mess of things. 

 

“I could-,” his voice rang out in the dining room, much too loud,  and he winced, lowering it. “I could feed them.” It seemed like something he should do, a task he should fulfill. Slinging slop to a band of dirty pirates seemed beneath her, even if it would just be a blink or a wave of her hand. 

 

Emma did look at him then, guarded and suspicious. He wanted to crawl away, as he had suspected, he was only making this worse. 

 

“Why?”

 

“It just seems like something I should do. As your...Companion?” He hated the hopeful lilt on the last word, hated how desperate he probably seemed to her. 

 

“Afraid I'll skin them alive? Rip the flesh from their bones? Eat their still beating hearts for dessert?” This was all delivered with a deadly false cheer, but even in that silken smoke he could hear the faint edge of hurt. 

 

“No!” His knee banged the table, his movements ungainly, unsure of what he was even trying to do. Get up, go to her, make her read the words on his face again. He didn't know. He settled back in the chair embarrassed and frustrated.

 

“No.” He repeated, not nearly as firmly as he intended, more a whispered plea than anything. It was hard to be forceful when she was looking at him with those eyes.

 

The silence stretched between them, and it made his heart thud against his ribs, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. 

 

“Fine.” She picked up her fork again. “You can handle them.” 

 

“Thank you,” it came out automatically, the one thing always uninhibited by his useless tongue. Her fork paused halfway to her mouth, and she relaxed a bit at the edge of his vision. 

 

When he cleared her plate later, the flower was gone. 

 

_____

 

In theory feeding a dozen men seemed easy. He had done it many times, but that was in the small ship’s galley, the food readily at hand. Emma had provided him a cauldron of stew, hearty and hot, and more than they probably deserved. They had called her a whore after all, and worse. 

 

She had looked at him though, hesitating before she created it out of thin air, that back and forth battle in her eyes before she waved her hand. A cauldron of stew and dry stale bread, a King’s feast in comparison to some of the rancid slop he had gagged down in the brig. Definitely more than they deserved. 

 

He lugged the cauldron down the twisting flight of stairs, his muscles straining, then went back for the stack of wooden bowls and spoons, one for each. He could hear them spitting and grumbling even on the landing, a few sharp rings of metal as the determined continued to beat the bars. 

 

His heart didn't start up until the labor was done, standing at the threshold of the sand colored stone. These men hated him, would kill him if they had half a chance. He had abandoned them, left them with barely a glance backwards, had slept between silken sheets, been entertained by a beautiful woman, had washed her naked skin, the memory of her scent still filling his head. They would slit his throat for just the first.

 

He knew these men though, had endured their taunts and abuse for years. They had taken more from him than any men rightfully should, and it was with this thought, emboldened by his change of fortune, that helped him step into the corridor. He felt their eyes on him as he dragged the cauldron, could feel their sneers as he went back for the bowls, hatred hot on his back. 

 

“If it isn't the traitorous swine,” snarled Evans. He came up to the bars, at least half a head taller than Hook, and twice as thick. He’d lost an eye in a bar fight years back, and unlike some, felt the twisted scar and curling empty socket was much more intimidating than the patch. Hook tended to agree. 

 

His hand was trembling as he arranged the bowls, ladling a healthy portion of stew into each one, ripping off equal hanks of bread. Slowly behind him, one by one, the men all came to the openings of their cells like wolves scenting blood, circling fresh prey. He heard the dull ping of wood on metal, someone's billy club, and the hissing rasp of swords drawn from leather sheaths. He had forgotten that they could do more than beat the bars with the weapons they still possessed. He gulped. 

 

“Is her quim all silvery too?” Jasper asked, practically licking the hinge of the door. He made a jerking motion with his hips, tiny monkey like face twisted in a sneer.

 

“Bah, like ‘e got anywhere nears ‘er quim,” Starkey grunted a laugh. 

 

Hook clenched the ladle, steadying his breath, deep gulps of air, in and out. His hand was trembling, with terror, revulsion, the thin and weak thread of anger that came whenever they spoke, winding through it all making his chest tight.

 

“You know what we do to traitors, Hook,” came an eerie voice, snake slick and grating, punctuated by the metal of a knife on iron bars. “What we’re going to do to you.” 

 

“Let us out,” came another, punctuated by a loud bang. Hook jumped at the noise, slopping liquid into the floor, dark against the cream colored stone. It looked like blood.

 

“If ‘e knows what's good for ‘im,” Starkey stared him down with cold brown eyes, his teeth yellow and snarling under an unkempt beard. “Then let me at the bitch. I’ll slit ‘er throat from ear to ear.” 

 

“Don’t,” it was not nearly as threatening as Hook intended it, a shaking, trembling plea.

 

“Don’t wha’?” Starkey challenged, pressing against the bars, shifting on his feet. 

 

“Don’t-” Hook took a breath. “-don’t talk about her.”

 

That predictably set them off, a chorus of whoops and high pitched hollers echoing off the walls. Hook closed his eyes, jaw clenched, his chest heaving. 

 

“You ‘heard ‘im,” Starkey’s voice rose in pitch, “Don’t talk about ‘er!”

 

“I think he’s in love,” Evans crowed. “Is all of her that cold Hook? Like ice on your cock I bet.” 

 

“Like he would even know what to do with his cock if she gave him the chance.” 

 

It didn't matter. None of this mattered. It was the same things they always said. It was no different. A bare chested woman shoved in his lap, apologies tumbling out against his will, men circling, taunting, grabbing his head to forcefully shove it between hot flesh until he couldn't breathe. Women sneering down at him asking him what  _ was _ wrong with his cock, what was wrong with  _ him _ , the scents of sweat and sex and foul unclean breath mixing into a fetid haze with the stench of alcohol and the unwashed.  

 

It  _ was _ different though, she wasn’t some disinterested prostitute in a run down whore house, she was practically a goddess, even if she denied it. She had given him his freedom, her skin was scented with roses and sweet smoke, she looked at him like she wanted him. Emma had given him more in one night than anyone had given him in his entire life: deliverance from heartlessly cruel men who took and took and took. 

 

He kicked a bowl of stew towards the bars of Evans’ cell, the tiny bit of bread tumbling into the dust. He almost didn't feel his leg move, happening so quick he couldn't pull it back. The twisted smile fell from the man’s face and Hook’s heart froze in his chest.

 

“I will kill you,” Evans said, his voice deadly serious. Hook swallowed. 

 

“You can’t hide behind her skirts forever,” Jasper added with a giggle, jittering in place.

 

“Please,” Hook said finally. He couldn't have calmed the tremor in his voice if he tried. His whole body was shaking, anger and frustration, fear and dread, a slavering cowardly mess of emotion, trembling before them. He hated himself for pleading.  “I'm just trying to feed you.” 

 

“So feed us,” Starkey said, all good humor now. 

 

“Your weapons,” Hook motioned with his hook, the light bouncing off it as it wavered. “Put them at the back of the cell.” 

 

Starkey tossed his club behind him, hands going up in supplication, his grin wide.

 

“There see?” the man said. Hook nodded, murmured a quick thank you, and picked up a bowl, tentatively walking towards him. 

 

“No weapons gents,” Starkey said cheerfully to the crew. He was in charge now. There was the clatter and bang of several men following suit. Evans however continued to glare at him, knife glinting in the torch light, and Hook edged away. 

 

He reached out, offering the bowl, the bread balanced precariously on the top. Starkey smiled that yellow and black toothed grin.

 

His hand snapped out cobra quick, grabbing the front of Hook’s shirt, and yanked him painfully into the bars. His hook banged against the metal, the bowl clattering to the ground spraying hot liquid as his hand went up to grasp the man’s own. But Starkey’s grip was iron, and Hook could barely dig his nails into the hard calloused flesh. 

 

“See, I don't need no weapon to kill you,  _ Hook _ ,” the man snarled in his face, spittle spraying across his cheeks, sneering the name. Starkey’s other hand came up, out of the bars towards Hook’s neck. 

 

Killian couldn't even cry out it happened so fast, pulling back as hard as he could, nothing more than a muted whimper coming out, but the man held fast. Killian raised his hook, intending to strike, to  _ try,  _ but Jasper reached out through the bars of the adjoining cell, grabbing the metal easy as you please, jerking his arm painfully to the side. Starkey yanked, iron pressing painfully into Hook’s chest as the man pulled him tighter against the door. 

 

“I'm going to kill you, and then when I get out of here I'll see that bitch on ‘er back, and then,” Starkey’s harsh whispered threat ghosted foul breath across Hook’s face, the man’s other hand snaking up to grab his neck. “-then I'll do the same to ‘er.” 

 

Starkey squeezed. 

 

“Will you?” 

 

The gnarled hands released him before he could blink, a golden light pulsing and strong illuminating his captor, edging him in frosted gold, throwing the huge man backwards. Starkey hit the stone wall with a sickening crack, bones no doubt shattering and snapping, and he fell to an unconscious heap on the floor of the cell. Jasper flung the hook away like it burned, and scrambled back into the shadows of his own cell in terror. Evans lowered his knife.

 

Hook gasped, sucking in air, bracing himself on the bars. His legs were shaking, knees buckling, his hook vibrating against the iron as he collected himself. He snatched it away at the noise, hugging it his chest. 

 

“I'm sorry,” he panted out finally. “I thought I could.” Thought he could what exactly? He wasn't sure what he’d thought he could do. Face them? Confront them? Make himself of use to her? Regardless, he had failed utterly. He rubbed at his throat. 

 

He turned to look at her. Emma tilted her head at him curiously, her face that smooth placid calm, but her eyes were brilliant shining emerald. A storm of rage swirled in their depths, thin dark brows narrowed with deadly intent. With a wave of her hand the spilled stew, the bowls and wooden spoons disappeared. In their place was a single flagon made of dark gray metal. 

 

“These cells-” Emma addressed the men, all of them now uneasy and fearful, watching her carefully, no longer wolves but frightened dogs. It sent a tiny dark thrill through him to see  _ them _ cower for once. 

 

She ran her nails down the door of Starkey’s cell, slowly circling the metal plate of the catch, “-have no locks. I'm sure an industrious crew of pirates like yourselves noticed they had nothing to pick, and thus, no way out.” Her smile was all teeth as she addressed them all. 

 

“But I  _ have _ let you keep your weapons.” She frowned in mock, pouting, confusion.

 

“I wonder why that would be?” she tapped one nail tipped in black against the crimson of her mouth. Hook licked his lips, following the movement, anticipation settling between his shoulders.

 

Her hand rose up and she snapped her fingers, the crack impossibly loud in the still silence of the dungeon, all of them holding their breath. In one wisp of gray white smoke the walls dividing the cells disappeared, one huge communal chamber taking their place. Hook watched the men regard each other suspiciously, hands on swords, fingers gripping wooden clubs and small deadly daggers, unsure of the game unfolding. 

 

“I have water here for you,” Emma said with a cheerful singing coldness. She motioned to the small flagon dead center of the chamber on the corridor floor, within reach if one were clever. 

 

“Enough for one man for a day or so, maybe two... if you share.” She was practically purring now, her teeth unnaturally sharp in the flickering torchlight. “Promise me you’ll share?”

 

And then she walked away, a brief look over her shoulder at Hook letting him know he should follow. He did, hurrying after her, and he did not look back. 

  
  


_____

 

The darkness was unsatisfied. It swirled and scratched against her mind, wrapping itself around her shoulders, settling heavy on her chest. Games were fun, but they were never enough, not nearly enough. It wanted marrow and blood, flesh and muscle. Retribution.

 

_ In time,  _ she told it.  _ Soon,  _ she soothed. 

 

She had no intention of letting them get away with this. Killian’s face pained and frightened, fingers around his neck, held down and helpless, flashed across her mind. 

 

_ Soon. _

 

“Pardon?” Hook asked from her side, his voice breaking through the churning shadowy fog. She had spoken aloud. 

 

“Are you alright?” she replied instead. She stopped walking. He looked okay, his neck reddened and scratched, his chest flushed. She wondered what he was thinking. The words on his face were all rapidly fading fear and stark relief, which helped a bit.

 

“Oh,” he looked down at himself as if he wasn't sure. “Aye, I’m-,” Killian whispered the next, “-more embarrassed than anything truly.”

 

Emma raised an eyebrow. He had nothing to be embarrassed about. It was her oversight. She had left those men with their weapons, she didn't have cause to fear them after all, they couldn't hurt her with them, it made them feel powerful and strong until they realized how useless they really were. But Killian was made of fragile flesh, soft and so very mortal. She had made a mistake, allowed her suspicions that he could be colluding with them to get the better of her, and as consequence he had glimpsed a small part of what she could do, what she was capable of. Emma stepped closer. 

 

Killian’s eyes went wide, his brows lifting in surprise as he backed into the wall, his hand and hook moving nervously at his side. She reached out, running the tips of her fingers along the cords of his neck, tracing the red marks with a whispered caress. His eyes slid closed and she felt him swallow against her. She kept moving, gliding them down like trickling water, smoothing across the pronounced bone of his collar, dipping briefly into the fascinating hollow there, to the bright crimson streaks on his chest, bare and exposed by his shirt. He was so warm, so alive, every breath rising against her hand, she imagined she could feel the pounding of his heart through her fingertips. 

 

“Does it hurt?” she whispered, tracing the angry lines where his skin had pressed against iron. It could bruise, and they would pay for every shade of purple, every tone of blue. She wondered if the tautness of his muscles, the fluttering in his jaw was fear, of her, of what she was, what she had shown him in the dungeon below, or just of  _ her _ , a woman touching a man.

 

“Not anymore,” his breath was ragged, his eyes tightly closed, the lashes pressed against his cheeks, so long, thick black against golden tan. Emma arched up, onto the toes of her boots, and feather light ghosted her lips across the firm flesh of his neck. He jerked beneath her, surprised, his eyes flying open, brilliant blue. She saw the answer in them, no fear there just plain and honest lust.

 

Emma stepped back with a small secret smile. 

 

“Do you want to go down to the beach?” she asked breezily. He could only nod, mouth open in reverent awe, his hands brushing where her lips had touched.

 

The darkness snarled and retreated. 

  
  


_____

 

She had changed into a long black dress, smooth silk, the sleeves open and short, her pale arms bare and white in the late morning sun. It fluttered in the breeze off the water, teasing glimpses of curves as it pulled against her skin, flaring out as the wind receded. He liked it very much. 

 

But all he could manage, all that unspoken poetry filling his head, and all that came out was a simple and ineffectual. “You look-.” 

 

She just smiled that small secret smile, reminding him of lips on skin, her feet bare in the sand, perfect little toes painted crimson to match her mouth. That mouth fascinated him. He wondered how the delicate arch of her feet would fit into the curve of his hand. He shook his head.

 

The castle rose high and sprawling on rocky cliffs above them, the smooth white sand of the beach dotted by intruding bits of debris. Wood and sail, rope and half dried piles of clothing, empty crates and broken casks brought in by the tide. The refuse of their broken vessel littered the picturesque landscape like a pox, and he was suddenly very sorry. They were intruders here.

 

There was a small tan shell in the sand next to the remains of a broken chair, whole and perfect, and he picked it up, tossing it lightly in his hand before slipping it into a pocket. 

 

As they came around the bend, he saw the ship, half of her gone, the rest laying dead and discarded in pieces all along the beach. He felt his heart clench. He had no love for her occupants, his time aboard her had been the worst of his life, but the ship had always been a thing of beauty, now open and bleeding wreckage onto the sand. When he had first seen her, trailing awkwardly after Blackbeard to his new home, she had seemed to hold a world of possibilities. Surely a ship so bright, sunshine yellow and royal blue, held nothing but good in her depths? How very wrong he had been. 

 

There was another shell in the sand just before the battered prow, a scotch bonnet, white tipped in swirling blue, pink and pearl perfect on the inside. He scooped it up to join the other.

 

“Do you want to search the ship?” Emma asked. She was watching his face, white tendrils of hair brushing her cheeks in the breeze. 

 

It didn't look safe to do so, the wood creaking as the waves lapped, the vessel rocking precariously on the sand bar, but reading his mind she held her hand out. The ship moved with loud scrapes against the sand further up the bank, groaning with every inch, water receding in a rush, a huge open wound in her side revealing the contents within. 

 

They approached the ship together. 

 

The Jolly’s insides were pitch black, haunting even in the daylight, a ghost ship now, all skeletal remains. Next to him Emma made a soft blue orb in her palm, gentle light filling the rooms. He smiled at her gratefully. 

 

“This is where you slept?” Emma toed a bit of coiled rope on the tilted floor of the crew quarters. It had fallen from its peg. 

 

He pointed to the corner.

 

“That one, I shared with Carlsdale, I don't think he made it,” he couldn't remember seeing the tiny angry man among the crew in the dungeon. He would have been on deck when the ship struck, he was on the night watch. Carlsdale had once dumped a bucket of rotting fish guts onto the deck under Hook’s face as he’d scrubbed away the grime, kicking the stiff bristle brush in his hand, sending it spinning, so it landed in the slop. 

 

“You missed a spot,” were the last words Hook could remember him saying. He wouldn't miss him much. 

 

“Is there anything left-” Emma wrinkled her nose in distaste at a pile of mouldy clothes. It was so at odds with her normally cold expression it made him grin. “- of yours? What?” She stopped her question. 

 

“Nothing,” he ducked his head, still smiling, and went out into the hall, bracing himself against the wall to keep himself upright. She followed after, taking it all in.

 

“It’s very small,” she commented. 

 

“It's worse when everyone’s on board,” he agreed, testing the hatch that led to the brig below. 

 

“What are you doing?” She peered at him curiously, holding her glowing orb higher so he could see. 

 

“I think it's still here,” he let himself drop down the hatch into the hold, his boots hitting with a dull thud. It smelled of rot and sewer, familiar smells, thick green slime covering most of the surfaces. He looked up at her sharply, peering at him over the lip of the hatch.

 

“Don’t-,” he blew out a breath. “Don’t come down here.” She narrowed her eyes, face cast blue by the light. 

 

“Why?” 

 

_ Because I don't want you to be tainted by this filth.  _ He wanted to say.  _ Because I don't want you to picture me here. Because this place is so far beneath you I can't imagine you in it. Because I cried on that rotting mattress and threw up spoilt food in that corner, pissed and shit in that bloody bucket for weeks on end, for dropping a plate, or burning the meat, or some other inconsequential crime.  _ He swallowed the thoughts down.

 

“It’s dirty,” he said finally. Emma huffed annoyed, but she just leaned in further to give him more light, and stayed above. 

 

“What are you doing down there?” she asked. Hook felt along the boards, till he found the one he needed, and with a sharp pound of his fist the wood sprang free. 

 

“I hid my things here,” he answered. The small metal foot locker was thankfully still there. He slid it out of its hiding space carefully, tucking it under his arm. 

 

“In the brig?” She peered over the hatch again, leaning in a bit further. 

 

“Aye,” he grunted as he grabbed the wooden rungs, hauling himself up, the pitch of the ship making it more difficult. It was a bit easier to breathe with each one, the room fading away as he climbed. Emma backed away, reaching down to help him with her free hand. She pulled him back up to the slanted hall as if he weighed nothing, looking at the box curiously. 

 

“Is that it?” she asked. He rattled it cheerfully.

 

“All I want,” he motioned towards the light pouring in from the hole in the side. “We can go, if you like.” 

 

Emma scanned his face for a moment, brows furrowed, and nodded, leading the way out, back into the day. 

 

“I could fix her,” Emma said, almost reluctantly, the orb disappearing, her hand bunching the fabric at the front of her dress. “If you wanted. She’d be yours if you want to…” she didn't say “go” but he knew what came next. 

 

He looked at the sad remains of the beautiful vessel, outwardly lovely, one of the prettiest ships in all the realms, but inside she was ugly with memory. He shook his head. 

 

“No, leave it to rot,” by his foot he spied a tiny cockle, the edges chipped and sharp, and holding his box, all he had in the world, under his arm, he reached down to pick it up, shoving it into his pocket.

 

“What are you doing?” Emma asked. She was studying him again. “Why do you keep picking those up?” 

 

He blushed. 

 

“For you, for your,” he waved his hook. “Circle things.”  He didn't know what they were for, but he’d seen the piles of shells and feathers on the table in her workroom, bits of them adorning the ones hanging from the rafters. 

 

Emma froze, the wind whipping her hair around her face, pale porcelain skin shining in the sun, statue still. She looked every bit the ethereal goddess he believed her to be. She just stared at him, until his skin prickled uncomfortably, the silence stretching. And then she moved, her feet sinking into the beach.

 

The metal box fell forgotten into the sand as her hands cupped his face, warm despite the cold appearance of her skin, and she pressed her lips to his. His eyes widened in surprise, his arms waved a moment unsure of what to do before settling by his side. He was afraid to touch her. Emma moved perfect lips against his own, hot and soft, and his eyes slid closed. 

 

He had been kissed before, the young daughter of a dockworker, a cool dry mouth pressed against him behind a stack of shipping crates, startlingly fast before her father yanked her away, cuffing him about his dazed head. Bolder prostitutes believing they could kiss his shyness away, tongues too wet, lips chapped and cold, reminding him of fish and musky city air.

 

This kiss was more of a first kiss than any of those, true and sweet and firm. She slanted her lips across his own, electric warmth curling down his spine, her tongue tracing the seams. He gasped in unchecked pleasure, and she took the opening, deepening the kiss, her fingers digging pleasantly into his cheeks. His knees were watery, threatening to buckle beneath him as a surge of pure unadulterated sensation filled him to the brim. He wasn't even sure if he was kissing her back, his mind blank with sudden lust and warmth, every stroke of her tongue sending frissons of unrecognizable energy into his limbs. A soft moan vibrated against him, rocked him back on his heels, his hand clutching suddenly at her thin waist to ground him.

 

The world could burn around him, set ablaze by the Gods, and he would have absolutely no idea. Emma’s mouth hot and moving across his own, the press of her breasts against his chest, her skin warm through her thin dress on his hand, that was the only reality he knew. The world tasted of strawberries. 

 

Her teeth tugged briefly on his bottom lip as she pulled away, hands sliding down his neck, another jolt of sensation going straight to where he was hard and straining. Cold sea air washed over him as she hummed in low satisfaction, her eyes opening slowly with lazy desire.

 

He wanted to grab for her, pull her back, the loss of her lips a truly terrible thing, as if some part of him had been stripped away, exposed and bare, revealed to the open air and sea. His arms lifted weakly, his body swaying towards her, but cowardice rocked him back. 

 

“That was-” he shook his head to clear it, brilliant buzzing white noise where thoughts should be.

 

Emma smiled that small secret smile in the sunlight, motioning at his feet.

 

“Don't forget your box,” and then she was making her way along the beach, back towards the looming castle above.

 

Hook scrambled, his nerves on fire. It took him two tries to scoop the box back under his arm, his boots slipping along the sand, threatening to topple him, as he followed her awkwardly up.

 

_____

 

She had meant to wait to kiss him. He was still too skittish, too fearful, overwhelmed by the changes in his life so far, dazed and wide eyed, taking it all in. He clutched his box of treasures like a lifeline, trailing after her in fogged confusion. He looked as if she had ravished him on the beach instead of just putting her mouth to his own. 

 

She should have waited, but he looked so hopeful in the sunlight, those shells clinking in his pockets, the desire to please her on his face. Her skin buzzed with heat thinking of his breath gasping into her mouth, the slick warmth of his tongue. She licked her lips, pretending she could still taste him. 

 

He kissed like a flustered youth, like a stolen moment in an orchard under bright summer sun, unsure yet of how they fit together, where his hands should go. He was ungainly and awkward to be sure, but she knew that future ruin lay in those lips, destruction in that tongue. He could one day lay waste to her. He had no idea of his  _ potential,  _ the word heavy with new meaning, and that thrilled her more than any skilled mouth ever had or ever could. 

 

_ Just take him _ the darkness whispered impatiently.

 

Killian flushed as he caught her dark gaze, darting a glance to her lips before forcing himself to look forward. She pushed the voice away, its metered hiss replaced by warm lips and a hand on her waist holding on for dear life. 

 

She could feel every part of her keenly. Her thighs squeezing tight, rubbing together as she led him through the castle, her nipples rasping against silk. She ran her tongue along her lips and tried to breathe. So much sensation from such a simple act, awkward and new, desire heating her from within. She could only imagine what he could do with time. 

 

She needed to get away, find some measure of release, or she would lose hold of her fragile patience, all her grand plans of a slow and methodical seduction. She would frighten him with her intensity, send him scurrying from the flames.

 

“I'll find you later, find something to occupy yourself,” he stopped walking immediately, her tone rushed and snappish. She risked a glance at him again. That same lost look, drowning in possibility, and her stomach clenched in sympathy.

 

Impatient, the darkness growled. 

 

“Go read a book, or tend the garden, I don't care which,” the voice that came out was barely her own, too lyrical, too fast and full of barely restrained giddy glee. Hook relaxed a bit in relief, but he titled his head to the side peering at her.

 

“Are you-” he paused, unconsciously licking his lips. “-alright?”

 

Her skin felt too small, her scalp prickling, she needed something to siphon off the excess of energy, dull the edge. One type of lust was much the same as any other, blood or body it made no difference. She was decidedly  _ not  _ alright. She nodded.

 

“Fine, fine, off you go!” More lilting sing song nonsense, the voice her own but not the words, the cadence, the tone. Hook furrowed a brow, concerned, worry replacing heady lust, but he nodded. 

 

“If you need me,” he said softly, uncertainly. “I'll be here.”

 

Emma couldn't look at him any longer, she would change her mind, her skin crawling, the darkness grinding its teeth in anticipation. She spun and made off for the dungeon without looking back, the urge to turn around, to go to him, rubbing her raw.

 

_____

 

Hook carefully picked shattered shards of ceramic out of dark soil, careful not to disturb the twisting bed of roots. He had briefly considered finding a book, losing himself in the words, but his mind was too busy, his limbs needing action, his nerves needing an open view of the sea. 

 

He wasn't entirely sure what had happened. 

 

He cradled the tiny plant in his hand, scooping it up with the back of his hook into his palm. He could probably still save it he reasoned, the green leaves were still bright and healthy, the roots intact. He didn't know much about plants, their care and keeping, but he liked them. He carried it to an empty space in one of the raised rows, his hook acting as a spade as he made it a new home amongst the rest. 

 

It was an easy solution: pick it up, dig a hole, set it to rights. Simple. Understandable. The rest of it he couldn't make sense of. 

 

Emma had not reacted as she should. Instead of angry confusion, that all too familiar look of disappointment, of betrayal, as if his mouth had made a promise he hadn't fulfilled, she had looked almost  _ pleased _ . She looked as if she still wanted him, inexperience and all, unlike the rest. Her eyes were bright and shining with what he’d thought was lust, but she’d also left, just as fast as the others, the taste of her barely gone before she was. He wasn't surprised, but he was very confused.

 

He patted the soil around the tiny thing down, and frowned going over what he could remember. Her lips, soft and warm, fingers on his face, her body flush against his own. He licked his lips, reddened at the memory, but he was at a loss. 

 

He couldn't make her dinner, the kitchen was empty of food, unnecessary here with her magic and pointless anyway since he could barely cook. His room was as clean as when he’d entered, the bed made, pillows rearranged, no trace of either of them there. The little plant was the only thing out of sorts here, besides himself. 

 

He gave it some water from a tiny flask on the shelves and wondered what to do. 

 

_____

 

She found him in the sitting room, in the same chair as that first night, the high back imposing, making him seem smaller. He’d lit every candle and then some, the room as bright as day, yellow and flickering, a worn book in his hand, the spine cracked, the leather cover ripped. He was startlingly handsome, it had only been a few hours but the candle light playing over the cut of his jaw, the slope of his ears made her feel like she’d forgotten, like she’d never known at all.

 

It made her feel dirty, her hands cleaned of blood, her ears free of pained and tormented screams, but she she could still feel it, bright brilliant red running down her wrist, could still hear the pleading cries and begging moans ringing in the air. She shook her head.

 

He didn't hear her for a moment, brows furrowed in concentration as he read, his hook tapping against his leg, quick and rhythmic, his leg jumping beneath it from nervous energy. She watched him for a moment, the jerking turn of the pages, his mouth moving ever so slightly as he sounded out the words. He was upset. Emma frowned and stepped into the room. 

 

The book fell from his hands with a clatter to the floor, and he leapt up at the sight of her, a half bow before he corrected the action, sheepishly rising. He rubbed his ear, smile small. 

 

“Hello,” he bent to get the book, his place lost, and awkwardly shoved it back into the metal box on the table next to him.

 

“What are you reading?” She couldn't glimpse the cover, the lid of his footlocker obscuring the view. She desperately wanted to know. It wasn't one of her books, all their covers pristine, perfect and unmarred. This one was roughly used, the pages had been worn, water scarred, the binding barely containing them. 

 

He glanced at it for a moment. 

 

“A poem, it’s Greek,” he lifted it from the box in one jerking movement, shoving it into her hands. 

 

Emma stroked the scarred leather, ran her fingers along the spine, the title once embossed in gold faded, the remaining letters unfamiliar.

 

“You read Greek?” She looked up in surprise. He shrugged.

 

“Not very well, I'm afraid,” he gave that quick smile, barely a pulling of lips, the flash of perfect white teeth. “I'm only marginally better in English.”

 

“Why Greek?” she asked softly, carefully putting the book back, curious eyes taking in the rest of the box’s contents: a few smooth stones, a black feather, a red piece of cloth. There was nothing valuable, not in the traditional sense, no gold or jewels, just moments of his life held in seemingly inconsequential objects. 

 

She collapsed into the chair across from him, her legs over the arm, dress sliding down towards her hips. She watched him, waiting for him to answer as he travelled the length of them with his eyes, teeth on his bottom lip, before he looked away, remembering himself, clearing his throat. Emma smiled.

 

“I liked the letters,” he carefully sat in his own chair across from her. Emma raised an eyebrow as he went predictably red.

 

“What did you like about them?” There was no teasing in her tone, just overwhelming interest, every detail of him fascinating, every tiny triviality revealing more and more.

 

“Ah,” he hesitated, taking a deep breath, thinking. “Well some of them are strong, familiar, bold strokes,” he unconsciously moved his hook by his leg, imitating them. The simple gesture made her warm.

 

“And some are-” he paused considering. “Beautiful, with these curves-” his gaze flickered back to her legs, his hand moving now, turning inward to imitate them. “-and uh, circles like a, like a picture.” He fisted his hand in his lap. 

 

“Did someone teach you?” 

 

“A little. We had a passenger, man by the name of Nuru on Captain Silver’s ship. A merchant. He taught me a bit,” he shrugged. “He was very...” Killian thought a moment. “Patient.”

 

“A good man then?” Emma asked softly.

 

“Oh aye, he gave us sweets, lokum he called it, never had the like,” a small smile ghosted over his face at the memory. Emma mirrored it on her own, then rose a bit to attention, hearing his words. 

 

“Us?” 

 

“Ah,” he tugged at his ear. “My brother and I. Liam.” 

 

“Liam,” she tested the name on her tongue, and across from her Hook jerked as though in pain. She frowned, but didn't press. He would reveal it on his own. 

 

“Show me what's in the box,” she said instead, part command, part request. He relaxed a bit, nodding. He reached over, pulling it on his lap. It was old and dented in places, rust teasing at the corners and the hinges creaked as he lifted the lid higher. 

 

“It’s not much,” he warned.

 

“Your pirate treasure?” she teased, the tips of his ears flaming red, that brief flash of nervous smile, more satisfying than almost anything. 

 

He lifted a few of the small stones, different colors, some shiny and smooth, others rough and jagged. He weighed them in his hand, letting them fall through his fingers like sand to ping back in the box, one after the other.

 

“The places I've been,” he explained. “When I could sneak away to get one.”

 

“You’ve been a lot of places,” she murmured, most of the bottom was covered in various stones.

 

“I've traveled a long time,” he admitted. “But I haven't seen much truly. Most ports are the same wherever you go. Sometimes, I wasn’t allowed off the ship, or there’d be more.”

 

“Did you-” Emma hesitated, her chest clenching with anxiety. “Did you like it? Traveling so much?”

 

“Aye,” he nodded, the feeling in her chest twisting like a knife. “Most of the time, I didn't  _ mind _ it at any rate. Didn't have much say in where we went.” He chuckled to himself, small and self deprecating.

 

“What else is in there?”  her voice had that hard edge, and he looked up in surprise, eyebrows knitting together.

 

“Not much,” he held up the red cloth. “A scarf, my father's, he left it behind.” 

 

Anger replaced the sharp piercing anxiousness, it was so much easier to deal with anger. She focused on it. A coward, disappearing into the night, leaving his son,  _ sons _ , nothing but decades of debt and a single scrap of cloth. Some of her rage on his behalf must have shown on her face because he shoved it away hastily, burying it beneath the stones.

 

“The book, Nuru gave me that.”

 

“What’s the feather for?” She leaned closer, forcing the anger away, her voice softer. The black feather shone inky blue and purple in the candle light. He picked it up, twirling it between his fingers. He didn't speak for a long moment, just stared at it, shining and changing colors as it spun.

 

“A-” he cleared his throat as his voice broke a bit. 

 

Emma wanted to leap up, press her palm against his mouth, stop him from speaking. Whatever had made his eyes look like that, made his face twist in heart wrenching anguish, she didn't want to know, she didn't want him to even think of it, but he was already continuing. 

 

“A raven landed on the deck, the day my brother-” he swallowed. “-the day he passed. Landed right in front of me and just...stared. Right into my eyes. The crew thought it was a bad omen, a raven on the day of a death. Swore I was next.  Men of the sea are a superstitious lot,” he chuckled darkly.  “I thought it was him, saying goodbye.” He gave a pained smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a hint of teeth. “Childish nonsense.” 

 

Emma did stand then, smoothing her dress, crossing the distance between them. The feather fell forgotten into the box on his lap.

 

She pressed a hand to his cheek, his eyes sliding closed, pressing back against her. 

 

“How did he die?” Her voice was whisper soft, just pressing against him, afraid to do more, sorry she had even asked. She had intended to peel the layers away, find the man beneath, learn the truth of him, but in doing so, by indulging her selfish curiosity, she’d left him raw and exposed, paying the price for her unwarranted suspicions. She pressed against him harder.

 

“He got sick, an ailment of the chest,” he kept his eyes closed, moving into her hand. He said it so matter of factly, as if it had happened to someone he didn't know, but she could feel him trembling against her. She didn't move, holding him up.

 

“Captain Silver wouldn't send for a doctor, and I didn't have the coin to send for one myself.” He sighed into her palm, her fingers stroking the soft hair of his cheek. “I found a hedgewitch at the next port, gave her all I had for a brew she said would help him. I was bloody terrified, the stories they told,” he shook his head. “But Liam was so sick, could barely breathe from coughing.”

 

“Did it?” Emma stroked his ear, over the elven tip, running her fingers along the hair curling at the bottom. “Help him?” He curled into her, shook his head against her hand, eyes still squeezed tight.

 

“One of the crew said I got bilked, 'twas nothing but dried bits of herbs.” His voice was thin. “He said, I should have tossed it into the night's stew for flavoring, it would have done more.” 

 

Her hand tensed in his hair, icy rage filling her chest.

 

_ A name _ the darkness whispered.  _ Give us a name _ .

 

Killian looked up, his eyes red rimmed but clear, his cheek fitting perfectly into her palm, the scruff of his jaw scraping gently across her hand. He jerked away. 

 

“We could add it to your collection,” he said quickly, too loud in the silence of the room. He pulled back, snatching the box.

 

“Killian no-” the darkness forgotten, the name forgotten, Emma went to grab him. He set the box aside, placed the feather on his lap, and reached into his pocket to pull out the shells from earlier.

 

“No, no, I want you to, it's just sitting in this box, and you can actually make something with it,” he moved desperately, shaking jerks as he gathered it up with the shells, pressing the lot into her open palm, closing her fingers around them, squeezing them tightly. His hand tremored, squeezing so the hard the bony surfaces of the shells dug into her flesh. She didn't mind. 

 

“Killian. I can't accept this,” she whispered, jagged bits of forgotten sea pressing into her skin. 

 

“‘Course you can,” he smiled up at her, fake but steady, eyes soft in yellow light, a light sea foam green. She didn't want to, but she would.

 

“Okay,” Emma said. She clutched them to her chest. “Okay.” 

 

______

 

The broken pot was gone when she came for the sun in the morning. The soil had been swept away, the jagged pieces discarded. She saw its occupant in freshly tilled soil, a new place in the row of lush green. She bent over it, whispering terse good mornings, feeling distinctly silly, but she’d read once that talking to them helped them grow, thrive, a human voice threading through the darkness. People were much the same, but plants were much easier than people. The green life in their orderly rows, the only things that had heard her voice for decades, until a storm raged and brought men to her shore. One in particular. 

 

This plant had obviously meant something to him, this tiny little thing. He had rescued it, taken the time to carefully find it a place of its own, made it warm and given it life. She wanted it to do well, grow big and tall. As stupid as that was, it felt important.

 

She had a similar plan in mind for Killian, a new strategy taking shape in the night. Her hand on his cheek, tangible physical comfort accepted when he was distracted, jerking away when he came back to himself, made her realize what she needed to do. 

 

She waited as the sun crested the horizon, heard his footsteps light in the hall as blue and gold broke the edge of the sea, felt his presence in the room as red purple light filled the sky. 

 

He smiled at her as she turned, his hair sticking on end, hand rubbing idly under his jaw. He was slightly out of breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the vee of his shirt, as if he had run the distance. She felt out of breath herself. 

 

She crossed the room, watching as he tensed, posture going rigid, and could only imagine the intent in her eyes, the expression on her face, a tigress stalking its prey. She stopped in front of him. 

 

He looked down at her, his lips slightly parted, a pink hint of tongue just above the ridge of his teeth. He opened his mouth to speak, but she reached up, tracing a slow path from his brow, down the slope of his cheek, the hard edge of his jaw, the space where his ear joined, and down. 

 

“What- what are you doing?” He swallowed against her fingertips and she pressed lightly against the skin of his neck, at the hollow of his throat, felt his pulse there quick and fluttering.

 

“Touching you,” she murmured. She shifted closer, chaste strokes, down the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulder, scratching across the fabric of his shirt. He was barely breathing, eyes locked on her own, violet in the dawning light. 

 

“Why?” He whispered, his breath hitching as she smoothed down crisp dark hair, her palm flat, fingers splayed across his heart. It thumped rapidly against her hand, his breaths quick and short. She could  _ feel _ them, every gasp of air, every unsteady exhale. 

 

“Because you need to learn,” she murmured, her hand dipping lower, the opening of his shirt granting her easy access to the shifting muscles of his chest, his ribs, following the trail of hair to a hard torso. He shuffled, drawing closer but pulling his stomach in. 

 

“Learn what-” his voice was ragged, strained, moving into her while trying to maintain distance. He panted out one long steadying breath. “-exactly?”

 

“How to be touched,” she murmured, her hands finding waistband, fingers teasing at the edge. She could make out the ridge of him beneath his pants, and she longed to run her fingers down his length. All in due time.

 

“I don't think you know how,” she said reasonably.

 

“And you’re going to-” he swallowed thickly, his voice tight. “-teach me?” 

 

Emma nodded, tracking back up, his narrow waist, the grooves along his back, taut perfect muscle shifting beneath her hand, the raised ridges of scars, each knot of his spine, rising under her fingertips. He shuddered against her, leaning closer. 

 

“I don't-” he started, but she was pressing two fingers of her other hand against his lips, drifting across soft warm flesh, pressing lightly where the pair came together. She rose up on tiptoes, and feather light, pressed her lips to the spot.

 

“Shh,” she whispered against his skin, the purple of the room turning tawny yellow as the sun climbed higher. He closed his eyes, turning his head to the side as if to chase her, but she was already moving, the scruff of his beard deliciously rough against her mouth. She bit his jaw, his gasp quick at the feel of her teeth, hips jerking. 

 

She stepped back, bringing her hand back across, around the rippling planes of his back, the broad slope of shoulder, down his biceps and the sinews of his forearm, to his hand, linking the fingers, feeling hard rings pressing against her own. 

 

He opened his eyes slowly, black in the yellow morning sun. She smiled up at him. 

 

“So, breakfast?” 

 

_____

 

Killian was quite sure that she was trying to kill him. He was positive he would let her. When he'd imagined death before, his insides freezing, hollowed out in fear at the thought, that vast yawning sense of nothing that came from such musings, it was always for the same reasons: hunger, violence, the cold dark waters of the sea, racking coughs filling his lungs with blood, alone and forgotten. Never had he dreamed it would come from warm lips pressed to his skin, soft hands tracing his body, his heart shattering against his ribs, struggling for air.

 

She traced the veins of his wrist at breakfast, mapping the lines of him with her fingertips.

 

She ran her nails through his hair, scratching against his scalp as she said good bye, gentle orders mouthed against his jaw, sending shockwaves down his spine.

 

She would disappear for hours, leaving him to his own devices, to read or tend the plants, and appear from the thin air to press her body against him, wind her arms around his neck, drag her teeth across his ear, her breath echoing in the shallows of his skin. 

 

He spent the day in gleeful anticipation, a new sort of game for them to play. Empty rooms where he read alone suddenly filled with grasping hands and ghosting lips, a soothing murmur as he tensed and trembled. 

 

She didn't kiss his mouth, but her lips found the ridge along his collar, the tips of his fingers, the place where his heart tried to break free of the confines of his chest. 

 

Her footsteps were the prelude to warm breath against his neck, a signal flare of oncoming sensation, weak knees and grunted gasps, raw voiced greetings his only reply to searing caresses and her heated mouth. 

 

She was an efficient teacher, her lessons lips and tongue and touch. Pressing him into the dark shadows of the hall as he walked to the study, surprising him as he made his way to the dining room, hoping to find her there and getting so much more than he expected. 

 

He was hard and raw most of the day, barely catching his breath, straining against the confines of his own skin. She was merciless and beautifully cruel in her ministrations, leaving him aching with want, the scent of her skin and his own increasingly desperate need left behind in her wake as she went about the secret business of her day. 

 

Sweeter still were those small smiles as she watched his face, that intense curiosity as if she wanted to see all of him, huffing breaths of delighted laughter pressed against his chest as he stumbled or stuttered, comforting words whispered against him when he apologized or flinched. Patient tenderness laced with heady desire.

 

He could barely remember his own name by the time night fell, waiting with rapt attention for her in the sitting room, looking at the pages of a book but not registering the words. When she appeared before him, in that black silk robe from the first day, her legs long and perfect, eyes narrowed in concentrated lust, he knew that if the goal here was his destruction, that he would not weep for being destroyed. 

 

_____

 

There were two men dead in her dungeon, blood and struggle weaving the tale of their demises on the stone floor, and Emma gave a gleeful laugh at the looks on the remaining faces. She rewarded them with buckets of crystal clear water, ice cold and perfect, and they gulped and slavered wretched thank you's at her feet.

 

But that was not the focus of the day, that would be victory, seeing revolting men brought to their knees, terrified and desperate, the joy of vengeance on her tongue. Her victory lay in reverent awed gasps and crumbling restraint. Her victory lay in a clutching hand at the small of her back, pink lips murmuring her name, in storm blue eyes begging her for release. 

Her victory sat in yellow candlelight, a book on his lap, his fingers idle on the pages, surprised and happy delight on his face when she came into the room. 

 

The darkness had spit and raged and moaned all day, and each time she had sought out Killian, silenced it with her lips, her teeth, her hands. Shoved it down and quieted it with fleeting touch and ragged panting breaths in her ear. Her sunrise rebellion was nothing compared to Killian’s lashes fluttering against his cheek, his teeth biting down on firm lips. The darkness was seething, frothing silence and Killian was warm, firm, flesh and pounding heart.

 

He traced a path down her legs with his eyes, not able to help himself, sitting straighter in the chair, the book sliding down forgotten on his thigh. She crossed the room with measured determined steps, giving him a moment of warning, some time to collect himself. His lips tugged up in a smile, brief and quick, before opening again, taking in her expression. 

 

She tossed the book away, pages fluttering before it thumped somewhere in the room. He looked up at her, apprehensive but curious, his teeth tugging at his lip in nervous anticipation. She smiled, slotting one knee, then the other on the outside of his thighs. He leaned back with a gasp as she rose above him, hovering above his lap.

 

“What-” he started to speak, but she pressed a cool finger to his lips, feeling lost words moving against her before he quieted. 

 

She leaned in, keeping her gaze steady on his. She could feel his breath against her face as she came closer, and pressed her lips against his own. Killian melted beneath her, that sweet dip and drop of submission, opening his mouth to hers. She guided him with mouth and tongue, slick and hot, gliding across his lips, licking into his mouth, teaching him how to receive and how to give. He moaned beneath her, the sound catching in her mouth, vibrating against her tongue and Emma sank down with steady deliberation.

 

He was hard between her legs, the ridge of him pressing against where she was already wet and hot and bare. She had spent the day tasting him, touching him, and she burned. She ground down, feeling that sharp burst of pleasure against her core as he groaned against her mouth, arching upwards against her. She rose up again, aching, wanting more, but she knew the rules. He shuddered beneath her, his mouth turning desperate, repeating her lessons back verbatim with the stroke of his tongue against her own. She draped her arms around his neck, tilted her head to kiss him deeper, buried her fingers in thick dark hair, and lowered herself again.

 

Killian lifted his hips, chasing her heat, a desperate hum against her mouth as he bucked into her. She let him, grinding down, shifting forward to glide against the entire length of him. She bit his lip, tugging it, his breath gasping against her as she rocked back and then forward again and again.

 

“I-” he strained against her, fingers digging into her back, the flat of his hook against her thigh. “I can't-” she captured his mouth again, rocked forward and back, sharp spikes of pleasure with each movement, a quiet buzz under her skin. She stroked his tongue with her own and ground down one more time.

 

He jerked away with a gasp, his hips rocking up, and he cried out, pressing his face against her shoulder, tensing and straining with his release. 

 

“I'm sorry, I’m-” his breath sobbed out desperately against her chest, warm through the fabric of her robe, his head shaking back and forth in denial. “I didn't-”

  
  


“Shhh,” Emma stroked his hair, feeling him relax beneath her. 

 

“I'm sorry,” he panted out a quiet, miserable, apology against her skin.

 

Emma leaned back. He was flushed a pale pink, the barest sheen of sweat along his brow, regret written all over his face. He closed his eyes in embarrassment. Emma took his face in her hands, pressed her lips to his forehead. 

 

“Why are you sorry?” she demanded in a whisper.

 

“Because I didn't want-” he couldn’t seem to find the words again, shaking his head once more.

 

“Killian.” Emma commanded. His eyes snapped open. “What did you do wrong?” 

 

“I couldn't-” he sucked in a breath, his chest still heaving. “I didn't want to-”.

 

“What did you think we were doing?” Emma smiled down at him, a wicked thing. “You did  _ exactly _ what I wanted.” 

 

He froze, looking up at her in disbelief, eyes wide. 

 

“But I-” he shook his head again. Her grip on his face became firmer, holding him in place, forcing his gaze to hers.

 

“I told you this morning, you have to  _ learn _ to be touched.” She pressed a kiss to his lips, his face deliciously dazed. 

 

“Now come along,” she held out a hand. His fingers were warm in hers, clutching at her, anchoring himself. Emma smiled at him again, echoing words from another day. “We desperately need a bath.” 

 

_____

 

Emma stripped him bare again, and prepared this time, it was easier for him to let her. His limbs were too lax and boneless for him to protest much, the pleasant hum of a recent release made him pliable, the delicious peace and calm that came after such a moment soothed his nerves, his mind quieted by pleasure soaked haze. 

 

Emma was quick purposeful movement, shifting in front of him from foot to foot, his shirt pulled over his head with scraping swiftness, her fingers flying over laces. She rubbed him down with hot friction, her palms smoothing over his exposed chest, nails scraping his shoulders. She crackled in the steamy air like recently struck lightning, pale cheeks flushed, eyes bright. 

 

He covered himself as best he could, still too nervous to stand bold while bared, his thighs sticky and cool in the air. Emma scraped her teeth over red lips and stepped back, toying with the silk belt of her robe, those legs and tiny perfect feet shifting beneath it. 

 

“Your turn,” her eyes were hard, unyielding. Killian blinked in confusion looking down at himself, already naked, his clothes discarded in a pile at his feet. She lifted the belt of the robe meaningfully.

 

“Oh,” he blinked. “You meant...together?  _ We _ need a bath.” The only thing that kept him from scratching the sudden itch behind his neck was the need to keep himself covered. 

 

“Yes,” she seemed almost unsure, checking his face, making sure it was okay. She stepped towards him. “Killian.” 

 

The command was in his name alone and he only hesitated a moment before taking the thin rope of silk in his hand. It was loosely knotted, fell apart easily under clever sailor’s fingers, no fumbling here, the robe parting. It covered full breasts, just the barest hint of curves peeked out from the slit of dark fabric, the smooth expanse of her stomach, firm and taut, pure white against the contrasting black, the soft hair in the furrow between her legs yellow cream. 

 

She shifted closer, urged him with her body to continue, more silent commands. He reached up, sliding the robe off her shoulders with hand and hook to pool on the floor, cupping the rounded curve, stroking momentarily with dancing fingers  on the exposed skin, tracing the freckles that had fascinated him before.

 

She reached up, fingering the straps of leather that crisscrossed his shoulder, leading down to the thick cuff that held his hook, covering the blunted end of his arm. Killian froze, cold fear trickling down his back to replace the warmth, and he made to step back. 

 

“Do you want to take it off?” She asked, her fingers tracing the lines, the skin slightly red where it rubbed him raw, the skin thicker and calloused in parts from years of wear. He shook his head quickly.

 

“It can get wet,” he shifted his shoulder slightly, her fingers dancing against air as he moved away. 

 

His mind screamed at him to get away, to pull his shirt on and  _ run. _ She hadn't seemed to notice it before, had avoided touching him there, allowing him the illusion that it was joined with him, no different than any other part of the whole. Her focus on it now unnerved him, his skin too small, the hook heavy on his wrist, pulling him down. 

 

“How did it happen?” She asked, all innocent curiosity, her hand hovering over the metal. He shook his head in snapping jerks. He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to talk about it. Not now, not ever. 

 

“Please,” he whispered. He didn't want to ruin this, he didn't want to feel this  _ now, _ he was still warm and sated, her lips still burned into his memory, her heat on the most intimate part of him, riding him to release, and he clung to it, not wanting to sully it, damage it with pain, override it with things better left in the past. He just wanted to hold onto this bliss for a few more moments, live in this new present.

 

She looked up at him, eyes scanning his face, touching each strained and anxious feature. She simply took his hook in her hand, and led him to the tub, hot water and rose scented bubbles awaiting them. He could breathe again, taking in the scent that reminded him of her, of here.

 

The tub was plenty big enough for two but he felt like his legs were touching every part of hers as they settled, and he shifted in the water, pressing against warm stone to give her room. She chased him with her limbs, rubbed her feet and calves on the outside of his thighs, their game was not nearly over, his hook forgotten as he felt her body intermingled with his own.

 

He went to grab the sponge, to begin his work, distract himself with mindless activity perhaps, but it disappeared under his hand. 

 

He looked at Emma surprised, and she had that laughing look again, the sponge now in her palm. He watched as she shifted onto her knees, rising from bath, liquid and soap tracing paths down her chest, the slope of her breasts, beading on rosey pink tips. Too beautiful and perfect to be here with him surely, the feeling that this was all a dream inescapable as he watched her. She trapped his legs between her own, settling herself on his thighs, smooth skin sliding across the hair there. He could feel the clefts and joins where she came together.

 

“A job well done should be rewarded,” she said echoing their first night again. She ran the sponge down his arm. 

 

He allowed his eyes to flutter closed, her hand tracing the path of the sponge, a pleasurable game of follow the leader, each scrape and rasp followed by a light caress. He gave himself over to sensation, letting her work, knowing it was pointless to protest, even if he’d truly wanted to, and leaned his head back against the tub. 

 

The rough caresses, the buzzing liquid warmth of recent surrender made him bolder, the question leaving his mouth before he could think on it overmuch. Perhaps a tiny retribution for exposing him so thoroughly.

 

“Is it a curse?” He asked, his eyes still closed. Emma froze on his lap, her thighs squeezing his legs between them, the sponge stopping its progress across his chest.

 

“What?” Her voice was cold. 

 

“What keeps you here,” he continued to press. She knew so much about him, had revealed him utterly, laid him bare, but he knew nothing about her. He could read some of her in her eyes, in the tense set of her face, in the slight changes in her smoky voice, but he had no details to fill in those impressions. “Did someone curse you?” 

 

He had heard of curses before, dark magic, a lifetime of sailor’s gossip and superstition. He had never given it much attention, his own cursed life making magic seem unnecessary to incite suffering, fairy stories to give whimsical meaning to pain. Still, he had proof of magic now, had seen her weave miracles with her hands, something dark and cold hanging over her like a specter.

 

Emma shifted back, sliding off his legs, water filling in the empty spaces, and went to her side of the tub to regard him. She thankfully, didn't look angry, but her face was that stony calm, perfect features etched in white marble. 

 

“Why did you ask me that?” Her tone was stiff.

 

“I just want to-” the stammer was back, the words always just out of reach. “-know you.”

 

“Nothing keeps me here but me,” she said finally, shortly. She didn't appear to want him to ask anything else, but curiosity overrode the feeling that he shouldn't, she had issued no command that would prevent him, and he was burning with the need to know about her as she seemed to want to know about him. 

 

“So why do you stay?” He tried to keep her gaze, her eyes burning into him. He wanted to look away, his stomach twisting with anxiety, but he had fallen apart in this woman's arms, and that made it somehow easier to face her. He gave her a small nod, a tiny shaky smile of encouragement.

 

She didn't answer him for several moments, water lapping at the side of the tub. 

 

“What is a Dark One?” He tried again, a different question, but this one was worse than the first. She tensed completely, going taut, even her eyes were unreadable now. He pulled the smile into his mouth with his teeth and banished it away. 

 

“I'm sorry,” he said softly, ducking his head. 

 

“Killian,” Emma shifted again, laying back, relaxing into the water. “I want you to touch me.”

 

It was so at odds with the current conversation he could only blink at her a moment in confusion.

 

“Pardon?” 

 

“A new lesson,” she said, raising her arms to welcome him. “Touch me.” The command was unmistakeable, hard voice belying the welcoming softness of her body.

 

He promised himself he could try again, would ask again, another time perhaps. He may be a fool, but he would not be so easily deterred. He wanted to know everything she was, the sum of her parts, solve the mysteries that swirled around her like smoke. But he also wanted desperately to touch her, to please her, a different sort of retribution to be had if he could make her fall apart as she had him. 

 

The problem was he had no idea  _ how _ to do that.

 

“You want to know me, so know me,” she challenged, her voice was cold but her eyes were hot, beckoning him closer. He obeyed.

 

He shifted awkwardly, trying not to crush her as he moved towards her in the tub. It felt like it had grown smaller in the few seconds of eternity that had passed. He kneeled between her open legs, and she moved, one leg slipping between his knees. He lifted himself, bracing his hook on the side of the bath, holding his weight on his forearm not wanting to crush her as he looked down, hovering over her.

 

He had never been in such a position, a gorgeous woman, open and wanting beneath him. His head spun as she unceremoniously took his hand, tracing it down the curve of her breast without hesitation, his knees digging into hard ceramic.

 

“How-?” He let the question hang in the air. “I don't know what to do.” 

 

“I'll help you,” she guided his hand across her chest, the tiny beaded tip of her nipple dragging across his palm. “But if you really want to  _ know _ me just listen,” her breath hitching. “Watch my face.” She circled the tip again, her eyes fluttering closed. “Pay attention to my movements.” She let his hand go, leaning back, allowing him to explore and test to his heart’s content. Small touches, light caresses, his brows narrowing in determination. 

 

He trailed heavy down around the slope, testing the weight in his hand. She was still beneath him, but when he moved higher, repeating her actions, brushing the tip with his palm she tightened almost imperceptibly, he repeated the motion, slightly firmer this time. Emma nodded little encouragements, her eyes closed as he lightly traced blue veins, circled rosey skin, thumbed against the darkened tip. He catalogued her responses, every catch of breath, every subtle shift, her back arching to chase his hand and questing fingers. He studied her face with burning intensity, her lips slightly parted, lashes moving against her cheek as he caressed and soothed. He suddenly wanted very much to taste her.

 

“Can I-” he swallowed, forcing the question out through sudden overwhelming shyness. “-use my mouth?” He had seen it done before, the brothels not exactly known for privacy and discretion, and he knew logically he could, but he wanted to check, make sure it was okay, that  _ she _ wanted him to try. 

 

“Oh yes,” Emma breathed out, her hand clenching against her leg in anticipation. He licked his lips and ducked his head.

 

Her skin was cool in his mouth, the pebbled tip rough against his tongue. Her hand came up, clutched at his hair, held him in place. He could read that reaction well enough. He loomed over her, feeling her skin on his stomach as he leaned in, testing her with lips and gentle brushes of teeth. He listened to her breath, quick and light, the barest hitch as he did something she liked, held captive in her lungs when he did something she loved. 

 

He went slowly at first, tasting, sucking her between his lips, laving across her with his tongue. She  _ squirmed _ beneath him, nails hard on his scalp. His eyes cast up to watch her face as he moved, trying different things, switching back and forth, braced against his arm. Her crimson lips were parted, head thrown back, the muscles of her throat swallowing reflexively. His stomach fluttered and twisted with uncertainty, not completely convinced he was handling this well, the entire situation out of his depth and surreal, but she’d told him to get to know her, and the only way was to try. He felt almost like a spectator, disassociated from his own body as he marked the ridges of her flesh with his tongue, filing away her responses. 

 

He stirred beneath the water, coming to life once more with fresh lust, but he was too preoccupied with committing her gasps to memory, reconciling the movement of her hands against his scalp with the actions of his mouth to worry about his own reactions. 

 

He was immersed in scholarly pursuit, testing the bounds of this new experience, so dedicated to learning the craft, reading her face, he almost missed when she took his hand in her own, dragging it down her skin to the space between her barely parted legs. He gasped against her breast, air blowing across the wet peak, and she moaned then, a small vibration of noise against him. 

 

He had heard it was mostly instinct, bawdy talk in darkened rooms that made him blush before sleep, straining to hear  as the men boasted about their conquests in explicit detail, studying illicit images burned into wood or sketched on yellow paper, traded around the crew with wolf whistles and obscene comments, flushing and trying not to stare too long before they were snatched from his hands. But instinct had been beat from him long ago, with fists and hands and careless cruel words and he had no bloody idea what to do. He froze against her, his hand trapped in hot, wet heat. 

 

“Emma,” he panted out, moving to draw away, back up to kneeling, water sloshing around them. She held his wrist firmly, staring him down, her chest flushed pink in the light. She looked slightly crazed, her eyes shining and wide, black rimmed with only the barest hint of green iris. 

 

“I could show you myself,” her voice was ragged, her other hand tracing a line between her breasts, down her stomach, the image of her hands on her body, pleasuring herself while he watched and learned, had his pulse jumping, his length twitching. 

 

“But I'd rather you try,” it wasn't a request necessarily, more a thinly veiled command, pushing his limits, testing his boundaries. His hand twitched against her.

 

He sucked in a steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment. 

 

“Could you...do what you did before, a-” he tried to grasp the word, his brain even more useless now. “-demonstration?” 

 

Emma nodded, her eyes glittering with promise, excited anticipation, as she traveled down his wrist to his fingers. She curled them how she wanted, manipulating the digits, took his fist in her hand and drew it back to her flesh. 

 

He couldn't see through the water, the bubbles had melted away to smooth foam, just the white shimmering shadows of her skin under the surface, and the angle was slightly unnatural, but he could  _ feel _ her, guiding his fingers through soft folds, pressing him against her. Emma shuddered and let out a broken gasp as he finally touched her, moving him where she needed, with the pressure she wanted, feather light touches swirling against raised flesh. 

 

Killian concentrated, brows pinching together as he committed the movements to memory, the varying crescendos of hard and light, firm and soft, slow and rapid circles. He didn't notice when she released his hand, letting him take over, moving unconsciously with the rhythm she’d set, no longer guiding him, taken over by sensation as she clutched at the side of the tub. He almost pulled away again, but her head thrown back, harsh breaths panted into the air, arching against him, told him he was doing fine. He watched her breath, her face, her teeth white against red as she bit her lip, and he  _ tested _ . 

 

She was writhing in the water, small ripples against the sides, her face open and so intense it took his breath away. Her hand came back down to his wrist after what seemed like hours but had been mere minutes, and he stopped again, sure he had done something wrong. 

 

“Need to-” she gasped out. “-do something.” Her voice was broken and husky, the tone sending pleasurable shivers down his back. She manipulated his fingers again, twisting his wrist in the other direction so his palm was up, and pulled him down again, deeper into the water until he was spread out against her, his face near her chest. 

 

He blushed furiously as he realized her intent, as she desperately pressed his fingers  _ into  _ her, her core wrapped deliciously around them, drawing him in deep. She moaned again, moving his hand, drawing him out with a slow drag against her, pressing him back in. 

 

“Li-like that,” she stuttered out, repeating the motion. He was burning up, lust and embarrassment taking equal weight. She moved his fingers again, so his thumb rasped against the ridge of her with each motion. 

 

“Gods, exactly right,”  she arched up, a small desperate keen caught in her throat as she established a rhythm, his thumb brushing her on each pass, using her other arm to help her find leverage to bear down against him with each stroke.

 

He licked his lips determinedly, applying the same principles as before, listening for the subtle changes in her breath, the gasps and delicious tiny noises she couldn't seem to help, the twist and writhe of her limbs as he moved. She let him go again, let him maintain the rhythm, the pressure, and speed, all his own decisions to make.

 

Hook had spent a fair bit of his life in service to others, providing the tools of their pleasure and comfort through the service of hot meals, a clean deck, a willing wench. He had never so directly been the reason however, his actions never affecting another so immediately and powerfully. He was overwhelmed with it, the need to make her feel good, to be the instrument of her pleasure. He pressed in closer, deeper, her face an open window into her needs, clawing and clutching as she rose higher and higher, his hand the catalyst for such remarkable change. 

 

“Please, please,” quiet whispered pleas barely audible over the churn of the water, the sound of her breath in his ear. He kept going, moving faster, consumed by her reactions, adjusting to her cues. He leaned over her further, slid upwards a bit, careful not to disturb the careful established cadence of his fingers. Small affirmations fell from her lips, encouragements with every stroke. He dipped his head again, pressed his tongue against her peak, sucking her into his mouth once more.

 

Emma cried out loud and it echoed in the empty room, filled his head with only the sounds of her. She reached up to thread her fingers through his hair as he synchronized the disparate movements of his mouth and hand. It was an ungainly and awkward position, nervous uncertainty following his every motion, but it was also perfect and raw, Emma letting him know without explicit words that he was doing everything right for once, exactly what he should. He sucked again, hollowing out his cheeks, drew back and tested swirling flicks with his tongue, increasing pressure with his thumb, small experiments, working towards a theory. 

 

She broke hard against him, shattering around his fingers, her hand snapping down to hold him firmly in place as she arched and jerked with pleasure, a cry rent from her throat. She surged up and back with the force of it, rolled her hips against it, sounding almost pained. It was beautiful release and tormenting uncertainty in equal measure as she gasped and panted, sinking back down into the water.

 

Killian slowly and hesitantly withdrew, leaning back on his heels. She was still trembling, little earthquakes under her skin, her eyes still closed. He watched her anxiously, waiting for something, what he didn't know, the feeling sinking into his chest. He shuffled backwards in the water, pressed his back against the tub, rubbed at his wet hair, and waited.

 

Emma opened her eyes across from him, her smile slow and lazy. She traveled his face, all anxious anticipation and miserable uncertainty and she blinked at him for a moment, confused. He could barely breathe waiting for her to speak, to cast down a verdict that confirmed what he had always feared, what he had always been told. Not nearly enough. 

 

Instead she rose up again, the water warm as it moved against him. She pressed her lips to his own, sweet and sure, and looked directly into his eyes, catching him before he could look away. Her words were honest and true, filling in the hollow in his chest.

 

“Thank you, Killian.” 

  
  


_____

 

Emma watched him as long as she could, before she felt voyeuristic and strange, her fingers toying with the ends of his hair, brushing it back from his forehead as he slept. He truly was a beautiful man, his face relaxed and slack from sleep, free of constant anxious worry, the lines of barely suppressed fear that dogged his every movement. For someone so bright, his smiles so easy, eyes always wide and open with endless gratitude, the contrast was startling. Only after watching him drift and fall to sleep did she truly realize how tense and taut he was during daylight, how nervous and constantly unsure.

 

She had hoped, in truth, to continue her lessons in the soft warmth of a lush bed, coax more than easy smiles from his lips, desperate to hear the unrestrained moans and pleasured whines of his release once more. Visions of him beneath her, clutching and desperate, hips rising up and rolling into her own had her filled her head, made her dizzy with need as they made their way back to his bedroom, her bedroom. But he was weary and emotionally wrought, his face pale and drained as he’d dressed in fresh new clothes, so she let the images drift away and drew a blanket over him instead. He had asked her to stay, his fingers drifting over her own, his expression hopeful, so she had, stretching out beside him on the large bed, cheek propped on her hand as she stroked his hair and lulled him to sleep.

 

He slept in the hook as well. She had waited and watched to see if he’d remove it, curiosity overwhelming her, the need to see, to know, twisting in her gut, the question on her tongue, but he’d merely shrugged into a new shirt, the straps black against his skin. It glinted silver in soft moonlight, taunting her with mystery, turned away from him with decades of habit. A learned behavior, one born of many nights with it tucked into his side. She traced the delicate lines of the metal, the gentle curve, pressed her fingertip to the sharp point until blood welled and her skin closed up to heal the tiny wound before another could bead.

 

He had spoken easily of his bitter life, of torture and fear, of harsh words and violence. They were unavoidable truths, the nature of the world as he knew it. He had spoken of his father’s abandonment and betrayal with barely a thought, casually washing his hair as he detailed a crime that no father should ever commit against his children, with no knowledge of how terrible it truly was. Speaking of his brother had been harder for him, a source of light in a dark life that was snuffed out far too soon, but he still breathed the tale out against her palm, given her the gift of his memory in a single black feather. 

 

But his hook was a different story altogether, an untold tale she needed to know. Ignorance prickled at her skin, his terrified reluctance only made the desire to know worse. After such a life how could this be any worse than the thousand other horrors he had endured?

 

_ You can find out you know,  _ the darkness beckoned.  _ He doesn't have to tell you. _

 

Emma looked down at him, remembered his face, the jerking of his head as he  _ begged _ with his body not to speak of it _.  _ Even if she could coax the story from him there would be a cost, he would be hurt, be in pain from the telling of it, and that pain would not be because of torture or cruelty at the hands of others. It would be because of her, her need to know, to understand, born of selfish curiosity and possession, her obsessive desire to learn him body and soul, find out what made him who he was, all the parts that comprised him.

 

She rose from the bed, one final brush of hair from forehead, a finger stroked down his stubbled cheek, the tiny scar that marked it. She had other ways, ones that wouldn't force him to relive the tale, ones where he wouldn't even have to know, wouldn't have to dredge up the memory from the dark. She pressed a kiss to his brow, and he turned towards her, even in sleep seeking her out, drawn in by her warmth. 

 

She left him without another glance, the darkness pushing her along, away from the warm room, his beautiful sleeping form, out into the torchlit corridors of the castle. 

 

Her workroom was cold and empty and dim, the dreamcatchers rattling ominously from their places in the rafters as she opened the door, clinking and swaying against each other, a warning. She ignored it. She had a hundred memories locked inside those intricate weaving threads, she only needed one more. 

 

Emma set down his gifts, three perfect shells collected with a sheepish grin on a sunny beach, and a black feather handed to her in sorrow by flickering candlelight, and she set to work. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liz does all the heavy lifting around here and I love her for it. This part is completely 100% dedicated to artielu who helped me feel better and who's love for this fic absolutely gives me life.

______

  
  


Emma could smell the ship before she could see it. The musky scent of unwashed men, recently cooked food, and salt sea air permeated the inky black, the sounds of raucous laughter following after. 

 

She blinked and stepped forward. 

 

The cramped dim galley of the very ship wrecked on her beach slid sharply into focus, whole and upright, swaying almost imperceptibly on open water. It was supper time, or thereabouts, dirty hunched over men poked at the last dregs of a pitiful meal by the sparse light of a guttering lantern. She recognized a few of them from her cells below, less weather lined and scarred, but looking more or less the same, less terrified for sure. 

 

She scanned the bench of the table, until she found him, half hidden by the bulk of the man at his side, swallowed up by the crew around him in the cramped little room. He was younger of course, leaner, his hair a tad longer and brushing the collar of his shirt, unkempt and rustled by a long day on deck in the wind.

 

She stepped forward, her hand lifting, wanting to stroke down his face, his scruff a bit lighter there, the scar on his cheek now just smooth blushing flesh. He looked so much like the Killian in her bed but also completely different. His expression was all too familiar, an embarrassed smile down at the brown flask clutched in his hands, peeking up shyly, but it was so much _ more _ , the force of his grin crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

 

She had seen him happy, had seen those easy smiles, but it was always with that faint edge of sorrow, the undercurrent of anxiety, his posture not nearly as straight backed and confident as the Killian before her. He was still timid, his laugh nervous, his face hesitant and bashful, but he smiled with all of it instead of just his lips and most surprisingly of all, he didn't flinch when a man slammed down his mug on the table beside him, didn't cower when someone gestured exuberantly, throwing his arm up to make a point.

 

Emma stepped into the space across from him, wanting to drink him in, to imprint this version on her memory, remember this happy smile unmarred by wary flickering eyes and nervous tongue pressed to his teeth. She couldn't touch him of course, only watch, a silent, helpless observer. But she wanted to, and resolved to coax a smile just the same from his face one day so she could trace it with her fingers.

 

“Yeh did fine,” the large man clapped Killian on the back, sending him forward towards the table with the force. “You’ll get better at it, new ship, new crew. It takes time.” It was the man she had thrown against the wall, still just as ugly as he was now.

 

Killian nodded, his smile growing, as he took a sip from his flask.

 

“Now ship business is one thing,” another man said slyly. She recognized him too, the one with the knife, also a large man, his eyes shifty and suspicious, there were two of them now, he hadn’t yet lost the other, but it made him no more appealing. “But as I sees it, if you really wanna go on account, prove you got what it takes, you need something bigger.” The man’s shifting eyes twinkled with the promise of danger. 

 

“Right of passage like,” the first man nodded. “We all had to when we joined up, even the ones who got crimped.”

 

“‘’Xactly, you’se prey, a merchant dandy, you gotta show Blackbeard you can be a  _ hunter _ ,” the man with the knife replied, slapping his hand on the table. Killian swallowed uneasily. 

 

“How’s that?” He asked, only the faintest hint of a tremor in the question. 

 

“By showin’ ‘im yer a pirate o’course,” the larger man said as if it should be obvious.

 

“And what better way to show him, than to do what pirates do best?” the man with the knife smiled, a golden tooth glinting in the dim light.

 

Killian nodded to himself, looking down, considering their suggestion, and she wanted to scream at him, tell him not to trust them, even before the pair exchanged sly smiles above his bowed head. She knew how this tale ended, where this was going. 

 

“What would I need to do?” 

 

Emma closed her eyes to steady herself as the three of them plotted and whispered. Killian eagerly took in their plan, so naive and trusting, smiling broadly whenever they would clap him proudly on the back, praising his bravery, crowing about what a feat this would be. He didn't stand a chance against such open affection, such brotherly camaraderie. All he wanted was acceptance and they were giving him the cruel lesson of betrayal in return. 

 

“Talk about it for years,” the one man said. 

 

“Stuff of legends,” echoed the first. 

 

She wanted to rip their eyes from their skulls, make them bleed, as they manipulated and preyed upon his trust, his desperation to be wanted. He was obviously new to the ship, thrown into an unfamiliar environment with strange dangerous men at the whim of Lady Luck and a well placed bluff. His only desire was to do well, to be accepted. It pained her to think that even years after this moment, over a decade it seemed, he would still be craving the exact same thing.

 

____

  
  


The scene shifted and morphed before her, the next one in the memory, the important salient details all he had retained. She was in a dark hallway now, pitch black save for a thread of moonlight through an uneven slat of the deck above, and she could just make out his eyes in the dim, the shine of his hair. He moved with silent quickness, that same quality that helped him go unnoticed working to his advantage now.

 

He went to work on the lock with a tiny set of borrowed picks, fumbling slightly as he worked. The task was obviously unfamiliar to him, his hands unsteady as he lost his grip and it slid against the lock with a faint ping of metal on metal. He froze, held his breath, and tried again. 

 

She reached out, her hand passing through him like a ghost, the memory rippling around him like water. Tears pricked her eyes as he grinned in the moonlight when the lock caught, triumphant and so very proud of himself. He should be in bed, swaying in a hammock halfway across the ship, anxiously trying to sleep as he worried about a new day with a new crew. How different would the man she knew be if this night had never happened? Or was this always meant to be the way? No matter what he chose all paths would lead to this. He was simply too bright for them, too good, would have always outshone them, cast their sins in stark relief, if not this day then another, they would have done anything it took to snuff him out. She could only be glad it didn't appear they had completely succeeded. 

 

She followed Killian into the room, all morbid curiosity and dread. The Captain’s cabin was brighter than the hall, the windows along the stern were larger, the moon outside was full, ominous, and she could see his every movement in the glow. He slipped along the furniture, his feet making no noise on the wood, and opened a cabinet along the wall. 

 

“Put it back,” she whispered to herself even though she knew it was useless. “Please put it back.” 

 

Killian drew the crystal decanter from the cabinet still smiling, like he couldn't believe he had done it, and Emma couldn’t help thinking the port swirling inside it looked like blood, the glass winking in the light.

 

“Captain Silver didn't mention you were a thief _as_ _well_ as useless,” came an amused voice from the doorway. 

 

Blackbeard stepped inside, a lantern filling the room in eerie orange light. Emma’s stomach plummeted in perfect time with the decanter falling from Killian’s fingers as he fumbled in startled surprise. It struck the floor with a tinkling crash, fine crystalline shards and blood red wine covering the polished wood. 

 

“I’m sorry!” he dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he went to pick up the pieces. His beautiful hands.

 

“For stealing from me or breaking it?” Blackbeard frowned. “That was a gift from my mother.” 

 

“I wasn't-” Killian shook his head. “It was just the test,” he said. “I didn't mean to break it, truly, but I wasn't stealing, I was going to give it to you, they said-”

 

“You were going to give me my own port?” Blackbeard raised an eyebrow. “How very generous.” 

 

“No, no,” Killian shook his head, and she could only watch helplessly as he struggled to get out the words, his tongue refusing to cooperate. 

 

“Wake Starkey!” Blackbeard barked over his shoulder. Killian sank in relief.

 

“Yes! Starkey! He’ll explain everything,” he said gratefully.

 

It seemed like hours before the man appeared at the door, his eyes glinting, a wry smile on his face. It was the large man from the galley, a name given to his ugly twisted face.

 

“What ‘ave we ‘ere?” Starkey asked innocently looking down at Killian, still kneeling on the floor, port soaking through the leg of his trousers. 

 

“Seems Jones here thought he could help himself to my wine,” Blackbeard raised an eyebrow.

 

“No! I wasn't going to drink it, I couldn't even if I wanted to,” Killian shook his head looked pleadingly over at the man he mistakenly thought would be his savior. “Starkey can tell you.”

 

“Tell him wha’?” Starkey asked. Emma clenched her fists as Killian looked at him confused. 

 

“About the plan,” Killian said, his weak smile up at the man made her heart turn to coal in her chest. He  _ trusted _ him, and it sent a lance of pain through her chest to watch that faith falter.

 

“Plan?” Blackbeard smiled dangerously. “So this was a group heist?”

 

“I’ve no idea what ‘e’s on about,” Starkey said. He leaned back, hands on his belt. 

 

“But the...rite of passage,” Killian’s face dropped, realization slowly dawning, his brows drawing together. “To prove myself.” 

 

“The only thing I see ‘ou’ve proven is you’re a mugger,” Starkey said. 

 

“Evans! Evans can tell you, he was there too,” Killian turned to the Captain. Emma almost couldn't handle the desperation on his face as he pleaded. 

 

“Alright, if you insist,” Blackbeard said reasonably, a smile curling his lips. “Somebody find me Evans!” He shouted out the door. 

 

The man with the knife appeared almost instantly, as if he had been waiting in the shadows, his face twisted in wicked wide eyed innocence. 

 

“Tell them,” Killian leapt forward from the floor, going towards him. Evans held up his hands as Killian approached, practically grabbed onto his shirt in desperation. “Tell them what I was doing!” 

 

Evans peered over Killian's shoulder at the glass and wine.

 

“Looks to me like you were making a mess of the Captain’s private stores,” Evans said drily. 

 

“No!” Killian shook his head. “I wasn't-” he turned to Blackbeard and swallowed. “It was just a test, I promise, I  _ swear,  _ it was just a test, so I could show you that I could be a pirate and not a...dandy merchant.” Blackbeard laughed at the description, and Emma felt her throat close at the flash of hope on Killian’s face at the sound. Hopeful till the bitter end.

 

“You know, I think Jones here might have a bit of a problem with the ole’ drink,” Evans said conversationally, crossing his arms across his chest to regard him. “Always tippling away at his flask.” 

 

“G-goats milk,” Killian stammered. “I have to drink it quick so it doesn't spoil.”  The trio looked at him incredulous, and darkly amused. 

 

Emma watched in dismay as he fumbled in his pockets, the brown glass flask encased in leather tumbling out of his clutching fingers before he could catch it. Starkey laughed and kicked it away, somewhere into the shadows of the room. 

 

“Starkey, you’re the quartermaster, what say you?” Blackbeard asked conversationally. “Put it to a vote?”

 

“Nah, I think it’s plain to see what ‘appened ‘ere,” Starkey pulled his lips into a sneering grin. 

 

Killian relaxed for a second, relieved.

 

“Thank you, I was only trying-”

 

Starkey cut him off.

 

“Theft aboard the ship, and from tha Cap’n no less,” Starkey shook his head in mock derision. Emma wanted to snap his neck, feel his bones break under her fingers as Killian froze, his mouth dropping open in surprise.

 

“Well we can’t kill him,” Blackbeard said reasonably, crossing over to the table. He propped his booted feet on the surface, leaning back in his chair. “There’s still the matter of his debt. I can’t collect from a dead man.” Emma was only sorry she couldn't kill him again, that she hadn't made him suffer worse during their brief time together. 

 

“Aye Cap’n,” Starkey nodded. “Useless as ‘e is there’s still money owed. Floggin’s not enough tho’,” he frowned.

 

“And we can’t let the men think they have free reign,” Evans pointed out. She would skin  _ him _ , piece by piece, rip the flesh from his traitorous bones. Killian's face turned gray and ashen, his entire body shaking in disbelief as they casually discussed his fate. 

 

Emma cried out as he suddenly moved, with desperate swiftness, and yanked the knife from Evans’s belt. It trembled in his hand as he brandished it before him and her heart thudded against her ribs. 

 

“Tell him the truth,” he said, his voice shaking as well, each word hard and measured. Blackbeard watched on with cold, amused, detachment. “Tell him!” Killian’s voice broke. 

 

Starkey and Evans looked at each other for a moment. And laughed.

 

In one quick movement Evans knocked the knife from Killian’s hand, sending it spinning, his fist bearing down almost simultaneously. Killian cried out, swinging wildly, barely connecting before the man hit him again, and again. He fell to his knees with a grunt of pain, trying to rise. Trying so hard to fight. He swung upwards with a clumsy stroke, barely grazing the man, just in time to meet Starkey’s fist from the other side.

 

“Striking a fellow crew member on board,” Blackbeard tsked. “We are in fine form this evening, Jones.”

 

Killian moaned from the floor as Starkey delivered a swift kick to his ribs. Evans went in again with his fists. Emma clenched her own at her side, unshed tears of rage burning as he curled into a fetal position on the floor at her feet, his hands over his head to stop their blows. It seemed to go on forever, strike after strike, flesh hitting flesh, striking bone. She marked each one, committed it to memory.

 

“Take him to the brig, we’ll address the crew in the morning.” Blackbeard said finally, and waved a bored hand at the men. The two hauled Killian up, and he hung limp and bleeding between them. His eye was already swelling closed, blood trickling down his face from a wound under his hair. Emma reached out, ghosted over the mark, as they carried him bodily from the room, his skin rippling as the world went black. 

 

____

 

Brilliant morning sun lit the deck, the sky a clear cloudless blue as they dragged Killian forward in front of a gathered crowd. The men glared and spit as he passed, cursing him, a motley crew of ugly scowling faces. Thievery was not well tolerated on a pirate ship and they didn't know him, he was new here, unwanted. They pushed him with rough hands, kicked out at his legs so he tripped and stumbled in the grip of his captors, threw rotten food and bloody chum they had brought for the occasion as he went by. He jerked away from them, his unmarked eye wild with hurt and terror. He had nowhere to go, a caged animal, the ocean stretching out in endless navy water all around them. 

 

Emma marked their faces, memorized each one, seared them into her memory. If they were in her hold they too would pay, and even if they weren't, she would find out their names from the rest, hunt them down, and make them scream. 

 

Killian’s face was a swollen, mottled, purple, the blood dried black and crimson in patches on his beard, so weak and tired he could only sway when they released him, sinking to one knee before the Captain and the Quartermaster, his hand leaning heavily on the deck struggling to support him.

 

“As you all know-” Blackbeard addressed the murmuring crew, pacing the deck before them. “The punishment for stealing from The Company is death, or if I’m in a  _ particularly _ good mood, exile.”  

 

He pressed a booted foot to Killian’s shoulder, shoving him further to the ground. 

 

“Jones here, however, owes me a debt, one he has not even begun to fulfill, and as such, he has far more  _ utility _ if he remains alive to pay it. Mister Starkey! What have you decided on instead?”

 

He turned to the Quartermaster who grinned, his eyes shining in the sun as he looked down at Killian’s prone figure at their feet.

 

“Seems to me,” Starkey said. “Jones here needs a little reminder, sos he don't slip up again. I say we take a thieven’ hand!”

 

The crew cheered at the pronouncement, a raucous yell of unsympathetic cheers echoing across the water. Killian shook his head fiercely.

 

“Please,” he rasped out, looking up at Starkey with one swollen eye. “Tell them. Please.” His voice broke.

 

“Get ‘im up,” Starkey said. Evans and another crew member, a small monkey faced man, lifted Killian up to his knees again, a third man darting forward with something thick and leather in his hand.

 

“Jones!” Blackbeard said jovially. “Catch.” He threw something, the object glittering in the air. Killian reached automatically forward, weakly catching it against the wood. He closed his fist around it, flipping it around to see. It was the crystal top of the decanter. 

 

“Take that one,” Blackbeard said nonchalantly. “We’ll get him a doctor when we make land. Tally the expense, add it to his debt sheet.” He waved a dismissive hand.

 

“No! Please! Tell them! You have to tell them!” Killian bucked against them, the two men holding him firmly as the third pulled up his sleeve, wrapping the thick leather strap just above the jutting bone of his wrist, cinching it tightly. He had such delicate wrists for such large beautiful hands Emma thought wildly.

 

“It was a test!” Killian cried out. “Please! Don’t-Please! Tell them!”

 

The man jerked his hair back, shoving something thick and round between his teeth, muffling his cries. Killian bucked and writhed, pulling away, digging his heels into the deck as he  _ shrieked _ against the gag. 

 

Emma had seen many a man tortured, had seen them beg and plead, their blood on her hands and a smile on her face. She could not watch this. Could not watch  _ him _ . She turned away. Her stomach twisted as he yelled begging protests against the gag, blood thudding in her ears, heart pounding in her chest so hard she could see it through her skin. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tighter and tighter as he pleaded out unintelligible words, clenched her teeth at the scrape of his boots across the deck as they  _ dragged _ him bodily to the barrel setup special on the deck, a clear view for the enraptured audience. She could hear his resistance every step of the way.

 

The sun was warm on her neck, a calm breeze blowing across the water. It was truly a lovely day on a calm sea. There was a hush as the crew fell silent, watching in grim fascination, Killian’s muffled cries the only noise in the entire world, until the scrape of a blade against a leather sheath, unnaturally loud.

 

And then Killian screamed as the gag fell out.

 

_____

 

It was black again when the memory shifted, the world smelling of rot and waste. No light shown in the new room, there were no cracks in the wood or windows for the moon, and it took her a moment to realize they were in the brig. 

 

It was so dark. 

 

Emma pulled out her blue orb, casting the foul place in a turquoise glow, finding him immediately in the tiny cramped room, curled up on a sodden pad that was nothing more than rags and unclean straw. She wished desperately that he could see the glow, take comfort in the light, if she could offer him nothing else. How long had he been left down here in the pitch black, in this foul place?

 

His wrist was a blunted end of blood soaked rags, dried black and brown with age, and his skin was slick with the heavy sheen of sweat, his hair soaked through with it, sticking fast to his forehead and his neck. His head lolled with fever against grime covered wood, his teeth clenched as he cried out in pain. 

 

She should leave, she should go, back to  _ her _ Killian, she needed to touch him, put her lips to his, remind herself he was okay, he had survived this, but she couldn't. He didn't know she was there, he couldn't feel her, he was just an echo, an impression in time, he wasn't real, but she couldn't bring herself to leave him all alone.

 

Emma settled onto the muck covered floor, whispered comforting words he couldn't hear, promises of retribution, of payment soon to be exacted. She would have every moan, every pleading cry that had fallen from his lips, every scream, repaid tenfold. For every tear that streaked unchecked from his beautiful blue eyes, that clung to too long lashes, she would take twenty, for every drop of blood spilled from his veins she would take a goblet full from theirs. 

 

Killian cried out next to her as he shifted on the filthy mattress, at first she thought it moaning nonsense, unintelligible pained cries, but it was a melodic keening warble, coming forth in a quiet shaky voice. 

 

“ _ I thought I heard the old man say- _ ” he gasped again as another wrack of pain went through him. “ _ Leave her, Johnny leave her.”  _

 

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wood, looked at the ceiling in a silent prayer, breathed in quick rapid breaths.

 

“ _ You can go ashore and take your pay,”  _ even laced with suffering and fatigue, his eyes fever bright, his voice was lovely, shaking and trembling with strain and agony but pure and sweet in tone. Emma felt a tear drip down her nose as he let out a harsh gasping cry, singing faster against the lancing pain.

 

“ _ For the voyage is done and the winds do blow. It's time for us to leave her.” _

 

She wanted to take his head in her lap, stroke his hair, whisper her lips against his skin, but she could only sit, watch him writhe against the agony, doing his best to block it out with an old familiar tune.

 

“ _ Oh, leave her. Johnny, leave her with a grin. For there's many a worser we've sailed in.”  _

  
  


_____

 

Killian awoke to a warm mouth pressed to his, a tongue tracing the seam of his lips. He startled, clutching the blankets, his hook digging into the sheets. He relaxed a fraction automatically, without consciously realizing why, and sank into warm bliss, arching up to meet her, sucking in air and her scent through his nose, his heart still thudding somewhere in his throat.

 

“Sorry.” Emma said into his mouth, she pulled away not looking remotely apologetic, her eyes bright and shining in the candlelight. They looked odd though, black instead of green, and he was too shaken by the jolt from sleep to consciousness to put his finger on why.

 

“It’s fine,” it came out like a squeak, panic drifting away as she climbed into the vast bed. 

 

He watched in bleary eyed amazement, his mind still catching up to the sudden wakefulness, pushing down the fear he was being suffocated in his sleep. She slid under the thick blanket onto his lap and it was only then he realized she was completely and utterly naked. 

 

“Good morning,” she smiled down at him, her words were cheerful rasping smoke, but her smile was tight and strained.

 

Killian could only stare at her in open mouthed awe, her hair, like glorious strands of moonlight, hung loose and free in curls down her back and chest, partially covering her breasts. He had never seen it down, and he needed a moment to take it in, to take  _ her  _ in. She looked softer, younger, a fairy queen staring down at him from above, her lips pink instead of crimson, her expression turning wickedly devious as she watched him.

 

“Wha-good morning?” he stuttered out. He looked around the room, wondering if perhaps he was still asleep. He pressed his hook against his leg to check for the presence of pain, make sure this wasn't some incredible dream. It bloomed sharp and quick against his thigh just as Emma shifted against his morning hardness, sending a bright burst of pleasure up his spine. He still wasn't sure. 

 

“I thought we should get an early start on today’s lesson,” she murmured. 

 

He wished he had something devastatingly clever and witty to reply with, but all he could manage was a nervous nod and a stuttered, “O-okay.” 

 

She leaned down to kiss him again, but he shifted back.

 

“What about the sunrise?” He glanced to the windows over his shoulder, the pre-dawn light turning the sky a dull muted gray, not quite time but mere moments from now. He may not know much of her, but he knew she was a creature of habit, her things arranged just so, her routines varied only by the presence of strangers in her home, knew that she had seen over a hundred thousand by her own admission, and it unnerved him that she was here now, looking so enticing, kissing him with desperation and sad dark eyes, rather than staring out over the ocean and horizon as she had most days of her long life. 

 

“I like this more,” she whispered, and leaned down again. There was something off in her kisses, something urgent and _too_ _much_. It took him another moment to register it fully, her lush mouth searing into him, turning him to liquid, stealing the breath from his lungs. He pulled away again. 

 

“Is something wrong?” he asked and he felt like a bloody fool. A beautiful woman, looking like Aphrodite in the flesh was throwing herself at him, had climbed into his bed, was presently on top of him, and all he could do was worry. 

 

Emma leaned back, regarding him with a wary frown. 

 

“Why?” 

 

“You just-” he motioned at her uselessly, trying not to get distracted by the tempting sway of her beasts, the shining fullness of her hair, the pink of her mouth. “You seem like something's wrong.” 

 

“No,” she said slowly, that wicked grin crept across her face and she slid her hands up his chest, shifting again deliberately against him. “Nothing’s wrong. I just missed you.” Sincerity rang clear as crystal, but her face tightened a fraction once more.

 

He wasn’t in anyway convinced, wanted to press further, but she settled herself more firmly on his length, pressed her breasts against his chest, scraping deliciously against the hair there, and kissed him again. He kissed her back, rising up against her, some selfish part of him insisting he  _ was _ helping, if this is what she needed, if this is what would soothe her odd mood and the lines of worry etched in her brow, then he would give her all he had. It was a weak justification, a selfish one truly, but he was not a strong man. She had  _ missed _ him.

 

She ground down on him again, smiling against his mouth as he hissed. He was overly tender and raw in the mornings on the most normal of days, but her heat against him, his skin already burning, was more than he could bear. She rocked down again.

 

“E-Emma,” he pulled away once more. She huffed.

 

“Killian,” she replied with hard impatience. “Nothing is wrong.” 

 

“No, no, I know,” he flushed. “I just, I don't want…” he frowned trying to think of the best way to say it. She mirrored his expression, already misunderstanding him, moving to slide off, hurt and something like worry flashed in her eyes. It made them green emeralds again, the black receding. He clutched at her, keeping her in place.

 

“I don't want to do...well  _ that _ again,” he said quickly, motioning down his body to his lap where they were joined, separated only by a thin layer of cloth.

 

He had been out of his mind with lust in the sitting room, too overcome with his own mindless indulgence, with the feel of her against him, to reciprocate in kind. His awkward fumbling later in the bath, those glorious heady moments where he felt like he was possibly able to please her, was cold comfort for what she truly deserved. And today it was worse, more important than ever, something was off in her kisses, different in her expression, had changed in the night with no rhyme or reason as he’d slept. 

 

He didn't have a wealth of experience in the area, but he could tell the difference between sweet and ravenous. Now she was ravenous. She seemed to require something he wasn't sure he could give, might not be  _ able _ to give. She had thanked him after in the tub, her eyes had been sincere, her words honest and true, but her kisses this morning spoke of a woman unfulfilled, grasping for more. Her eyes were bright, but rimmed in red and sorrow.

 

Understanding dawned across her face, and that made him feel worse if possible. She shouldn't understand. She should demand more, she deserved more, she was an immortal being who possessed the power to move the world, even without her magic, and she may deny with words that she was a goddess, resent the notion even, but he had seen the truth in action, and he had learned long ago that was the only truth there was. 

 

The lonely years she had spent here had perhaps sullied her expectations, had made even the mediocre seem  _ good enough,  _ and if he didn't understand what she found so appealing about him, she shouldn't either. He knew who he was, what he was capable of.  And he also knew, as surely as he could map the stars in the sky, her desperation, her need would only grow as he continued and continued to fail her. He released his hand from her waist, letting it fall to the blanket.

 

Emma watched it drop with another frown, and looked at him for a long moment. 

 

“How many women have you been with?” Emma asked suddenly, that regal satin voice breaking him out of his thoughts. 

 

Mortification slid up his neck, turning him bright red, his cheeks flaming. He looked away. He had thought it was perfectly obvious, his lack of knowledge about intimate things, his poor performance last night as she’d brought him to the peak in mere moments, the entire  _ point _ of their lessons. He’d thought she knew. 

 

“Well I, um,” he swallowed, trying to move away, shift her off him. She stopped him cold, her thighs squeezing to hold him in place. 

 

“How many?” 

 

“Well...none,” he didn't want to look at her as he admitted it so plainly. Thirty three or thirty four years on this earth and not once had he lain with a single soul. He had come close, a few persistent lasses had tried their best, had worked hard for the coin he thrust at them with clammy nervous hand, left his rooms confused and livid when he couldn't go through with it in the end. Lecherous saltdogs, alighting on his pretty face, his youth, and seeing opportunity, propositioning him in dark corners of the ship.

 

There were no starry eyed notions of love behind his reluctance, no moral grounds for his hesitance, no strict adherence to religious principles, just cowardice pure and simple. He was a coward and Emma, goddess that she was, deserved better than a coward. 

 

He tried to pull away again, but she was too strong, too determined. He risked a glance up, expecting cold anger, or pity, anything other than the expression on her face.

 

She looked, in truth, exasperated. 

 

“Did you  _ really _ think I didn't know that?” her voice was that same chilling coldness threaded with incredulity. 

 

“I-well,” he shrugged. “I suspected, what with the...uh, the lessons.” His voice hitched on the word. “But-” he cut himself off.

 

“But?” 

 

“You just,” he swallowed again, frustration evident in every syllable. “You presume I can do this, like my inexperience-” he paused. “Like it doesn't matter.” 

 

“Because it doesn't matter,” she tilted her head. “I said I would show you, teach you.” 

 

“But you shouldn't-” he closed his eyes. “-you shouldn't have to.”

 

She laughed. But it was not the musical trill he was used to, the laugh that had changed the course of his fate, the one pressed against his chest during delightful games of play and touch. This was the sound of prisoners in the dungeons, and games designed to hurt. He froze. 

 

“I don't do anything because I  _ should _ ,” she whispered dangerously. “This is what I  _ want.” _

 

She was a slow seductress, leaning lower, her hair brushing his chest, eyes hot. 

 

“ _ You _ are what I want,” she scraped her nails down his chest. “Like beautiful moldable clay.” 

 

She kissed his neck, scraped her teeth along the cords, a shiver going down his spine, his hardness throbbing against her. 

 

“What better lover could there be than the one you craft and guide to your own desires?” 

 

_ What do the Gods do with their discarded playthings? _

 

The words rang through his head as cold anxiety settled heavy on his chest, doubled by the weight of her, pressing her lips to his ear, tracing the shell with her tongue, completely unaware as she tugged his earlobe with rasping teeth, that his chest was caving in, his heart crushed beneath the wreckage. 

 

This was what he wanted wasn't it? To be the tool with which she obtained her pleasure, useful, purposeful, wanted, like the hook on his hand, she could use him as she saw fit. She was honing him, sharpening him, molding him, to be exactly what she needed. Was that not what he wanted to do? Be what she needed?

 

He took in air that couldn't fill his lungs, there wasn't enough air in the room, possibly not enough in the world, and he fisted at the blanket, willing himself to calm, to focus on her mouth as it trailed soft kisses down his neck, her scent drifting over him. That only made it worse, a stark reminder in warm lips and hot flesh of where this was leading, what she wanted from him that he would be unable to provide, images of her looking down at him, angry and confused, wondering why, how could he possibly be so broken? She would tell him to leave, to go back to the ship, the crew. He couldn't breathe. He was drowning in panic, his entire body cold despite her heat. 

 

“Killian?” Emma leaned back then, frowning down at him in concern, the smoke of her voice softening some, becoming worried honeyed cream. 

 

“S’fine,” he tried to smile, and failed, tried to make his face appear normal, but his eyes were too wide, his lips stretching across gritted teeth. He turned his head away, screaming at himself to _calm down_. There was nothing wrong. She wanted him. She was here. She’d _missed_ him. She was as close as someone could bloody be without crawling inside for fuck’s sake, _calm_ _down_. 

 

“Killian, what’s wrong?” She slid off him, the pressure easing slightly, but there still wasn't enough air, his skin pulling tight, every stitch of clothing, the heavy weight of the blankets, he could feel them all acutely, tearing at his skin, holding him down. He wished she’d call him Hook, he could handle this all so much better, this temporary role in her life, the natural and eventual end to his  _ utility,  _ if she called him by the name he was familiar with. 

 

“I just need-” he wheezed. “-a moment.” 

 

He wasn't quite sure what was happening, his brain was screaming, every word of every thought in his head was spoken in a yell inside his mind. It was too much, too fast. Warm sleep, dreams of her, and then startling awake, her mouth demanding, her expression troubled, dark laughter and kisses that led to places he wasn't sure he was able to go. 

 

She ran her hands over him, checking for injury, concern and fear filling her beautiful porcelain face. He didn't want that, it would only continue to stack the deck against him, dull him in her eyes quicker, and most importantly it  _ hurt  _ her, but he didn't know how to stop doing whatever it was that was making her have that face. He couldn't seem to get himself under control. 

 

“It's okay,” she said softly. She pressed her cheek to his head. “It’s okay. It’s my fault, I didn't mean it that way.”

 

“I'm sorry,” he gasped out through heaving panting breaths, rising to sit. 

 

“It’s okay,” she repeated and her voice was breaking him apart, she was being so patient, so soothing. For how long? He had learned the hard way that people possessed a finite amount of patience, of understanding, when it came to him, and in his experience she was well beyond the usual threshold. 

 

“It is not bloody well okay,” it was the closest he had come to harsh, the closest he had come to angry, and he regretted it instantly, shrinking away from her as if preparing for a blow. None came, _of_ _course_ none came, he didn't believe for a second she would, but old habits died slow deaths. She slid across his legs again, and sat back, regarding him for a long dreadful moment until she spoke.

 

“The thing about us is, you always struggle to find the words to say the  _ right _ thing and I manage to find all the  _ wrong _ words and then have to struggle to make them right.” 

 

“You didn't-” he looked up at her, went to deny her accusation in a shaky trembling voice, not quite a lie but not quite the truth, but she stopped him speaking again, leaned over to press her palm along his mouth, warm and reassuring, her body keeping him contained. It was easier to breathe with her holding him down, looking at him like that. His skin was not enough alone to hold him, he needed firm pressure, hard hands and clenching thighs.

 

“I said something stupid and you got upset,” she reminded him wryly. “It doesn't take a grand leap in logic to figure out it was my fault. Or what's wrong.”

 

Dread coiled in his stomach again, creeping up his ribs to join the slowly ebbing panic. He didn't want to explain, didn't want her to know how ridiculous he was, how much he fretted and worried over something she had already given reassurance for. But most of all he didn't want her to confirm the inevitable truth of it, to give voice to some dark day in the future when she wouldn't want him anymore. He was stuck in the middle, between wanting to learn and allow himself be molded to her whims, built with her own hands to please her, but knowing that her interest, her curiosity, lie in who he was  _ now _ , the challenge he presented her, the new games she could play. 

 

Emma’s voice broke through, drawing him back to her, expecting harsh reality, cold truth.

 

“I realized last night how...unfair I've been,” she confessed, surprising him instead. Always surprising him. “I've pushed you so hard.” 

 

He went to speak his voice muffled by her hand. She gave him a sharp look.

 

“I'm talking,” her voice was hard, but not unkind. He nodded against her palm for her to continue. 

 

“I'm not-” she shifted uncomfortably on top of him, and against his will soft pleasure tugged across his belly. “- _ good _ at this. The talking thing, I never have been. And sometimes it's because of me, and sometimes it's something…else.” Her eyes flickered briefly to the side. “But I'm going to try, okay?” 

 

She looked down at him, waiting for his answer, her palm was still across his mouth, so he did what he could to tell her, how her simple statement, that one word,  _ try,  _ filled him with something indescribable, a tiny warmth in his ribs, pushing back against the fear. He pressed his lips against her palm, and nodded. 

 

_____

  
  


_ This is it dearie _ , the darkness whispered giddily.  _ Here it comes. The beginning of the end. _

 

_ You don't know that, _ she wanted to yell at it, scream her denials, but she didn't have to, it could hear her anyway. It just laughed.

 

_ Oh but I do,  _ it smiled against her heart, bearing its teeth with every thud,  _ how quickly we forget the past in favor of the future. _

 

_ It’s different,  _ she argued,  _ he’s different. _

 

The darkness gave no reply, and that was somehow worse. 

 

Beneath her, Killian looked up with wide grateful eyes, the curl of his smile rising under her palm, her skin tingling where it pressed against his face. 

 

She had come out of his memory in a raging daze, tears drying on her cheeks, her skin cracking and pulling under their weight. She wanted to spit fire, level mountains, his whimpering cries, his sweet trembling song, still echoing in her ears. She had debts to collect, tears and blood and tormented screams to take in payment.

 

But she also needed to  _ see him. _ Sleeping and peaceful, whole and unmarred, instead of gasps of agony just the slow rise and fall of sleep. The dawn was close, the familiar itch under her skin of rapidly approaching day, but she’d changed course, heading to his room instead. 

 

And now, as she looked down at him, his eyes still shining with the threat of panicked tears, the aftermath of her careless words, cheeks edging over the ridge of her fingers as he smiled beneath her hand, relaxing under her, she knew it was the better choice. She shifted meaningfully against him.

 

“But before I...try-”, she could feel the rising swell of lust, blacking out the fear of revealing herself, the uncertainty of his reactions, the dark promise and oncoming tide of vowed vengeance, “-I believe we have a lesson to get to. I don't want to ruin the mood.” 

 

It was tiny joke, a teasing thing to let him know his reaction was alright, understandable, and the tips of his cheeks above her hand reddened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. She gave a little shimmy, her eyes full of intent. 

 

His widened with something completely different now, his throat working as he swallowed nervously. Emma promised herself she wasn't deflecting, she had always been better at the physical, replacing feelings with touch, avoiding revealing  _ herself _ in favor of revealing her body. But she had promised she would try, and she would, he deserved no less, had shown her more than anyone ever had, laid himself bare for her over and over again. And she had taken from him, selfishly grabbed hold of what he hadn't wanted to part with, seen the depth of his pain. The least she could do was show him a bit of hers. But the darkness kept creeping into her thoughts, anger still licking up her spine, and she needed the comforting warmth of his touch before she could expose herself further, even in the tiniest measure. She pulled her hand back, and slowly smiled. 

 

Killian looked up at her, mouth working as he waited for the words to come. She moved against him somewhat impatiently, her nerves on edge.

 

“I can do it,” he said finally. “Whatever you need me to do, if you need  _ more,  _ you don't have to make-” he struggled. “-accommodations for me. I can be better.”

 

Before she could reply, deny his words outright, he shot up, bracing her back against his arm. She sank lower into the cradle of his lap, surprised by the sudden movement, and to find they were of a similar height now, and he ducked his head, intending to kiss her. 

 

“Killian,” she pressed a hand against his chest, stilling him. His face fell.

 

“Apologies, I shouldn't have-” she pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, a reassurance.

 

“No, that was fine,” she said. “More than fine. But you’re wrong, I'm not “making accommodations”, I told you before, this is what I  _ want _ .” She dared a look in his eyes, seeing the hesitation there, the undercurrent of disbelief. 

 

“What we’ve been doing, the pace we’ve set, it's not for you-” she licked her lips, forcing herself to say it, even if everything in her rebelled against the very idea of it, she looked away, “-well not  _ just _ for you. It's for me too.” 

 

She swallowed, even that small confession searing her nerves further, the darkness snarling. But the expression on his face, that beautiful shining gratitude, was worth a thousand vulnerable confessions. “I want this to be  _ different.” _

 

“That's what I want too,” he said softly, his eyes darting away. “More than you know.” 

 

Emma couldn't help but grin at the shy earnestness, her chest warming, before she shook her head and let out a shaky breath.

 

“Now, enough talking,” she said firmly, pushing away her discomfort the only way she knew how, by pressing him back against the rise of the pillows.

 

“I'm no good at it anyway. Maybe I can find a better use for this mouth,” he said with a raised brow. The effect was somewhat ruined as he blinked in surprise at himself, at his almost flirtatious response. The warm feeling grew, turning to stark heat as she shifted, feeling him under her. 

 

“Oh, I have no doubt you will,” she said slyly, and leaned down to kiss him. He opened under her immediately, drawing her in, a little more confident today, a little less hesitant. His tongue against her own sent a cool shiver down her back, her hair brushing around his face, blocking out the world for a brief moment, just lips and tongue and shining silver. She luxuriated in him, spread herself along his body, the rise of his chest, the firmness of his thighs, the fresh clean scent of his skin. He was warm sunshine in her mouth, a dawn cresting over the horizon filling her with morning light as he hummed into her, shifting and unconsciously pressing himself against her thigh. 

 

She smoothed her hand along his shirt, the faint trickle of magic turning it into bare, warm, skin. He gasped against her lips as she moved her chest against him, and she moaned in reply at the rasp and slide of his hair against her breasts. He was fever hot under her, muscled flesh and decadence, and she brought her hand lower, repeated the motion, until there was no barrier at all between them. 

 

He bucked against her leg at the sudden sensation of soft thigh against him, hot and thick against her delicate skin. She shifted to the side a bit to feel him fully, brushing against the space between her thighs, the beautiful contrast of hard and smooth. 

 

“E-Emma,” he stuttered out a warning as she moved again, slid upwards, his length pressing teasingly against her, not enough, just a whisper. 

 

“Shh,” she murmured. “I'm getting to know you.” Listen, watch, pay attention, she echoed the words in her head, remembered his face in the bath as she’d instructed him, and she smiled. Killian nodded, squeezing his eyes closed and threw his head back against the pillow in sweet torment as she rocked against him again. 

 

Emma moved down to his side, stretching herself along the length of his body underneath his arm, hooking her calf over his leg as she trailed a fingertip down the center of his chest, careful to avoid the crisscrossing straps of his brace, his hook safety tucked into the small of her back. It made him look dangerous, that black leather against pale hard skin, etched in silver scars, only softened by his gasping mouth and the slack desire on his face.

 

He opened his eyes, breathing a little easier as she shifted away, watching her intently. She laid her head against his shoulder, the leather hard under her, and slowly trailed one delicate nail around his nipple, tracing the faint line of a scar there, the subtle dip of muscle, and listened as he sucked in air through his teeth with a muted hiss. He was so responsive, so sensitive, and she reveled in it.

 

Emma kept going, down the lines of his abdomen, the delicious hollow of his hips, and with every inch his breath grew shallower, his body tensing in anticipation. She trailed her finger down his length, the skin velvet and hot, and watched as his hips lifted against his will, a stuttered gasp as she traced the tip. She trailed her finger back down to the base and curled her hand, grasping him firmly within it.

 

Killian made a noise in the back of his throat that sent a sharp jolt of want straight to her center, and she moved her hand down and back up to hear it again, she  _ needed _ to hear it again, his muscles shifting as he scrabbled against the sheets. She imagined he took himself in hand from time to time, a captured moment in the dark, fist working, his lip biting down to muffle his cries, lashes fluttering against his cheeks just like now, all kinds of delicious images filling her head of Killian stealing secret moments, making her throb. She wondered if anyone else had ever had the pleasure of touching him like this, feeling him like this. 

 

Emma moved with deliberate purpose, slow measured strokes, watching his breath, his teeth moving against his lips as he gasped. She changed course, an open palm brushing lightly down him instead now, feathery touches from base to tip, and he shuddered, a little “Oh” of a surprise moaned out into the air. 

 

She leaned over, traced her tongue down the cords of his neck, bit down lightly on the tender skin, as she grasped him again, without warning, keeping him guessing, stroking faster and firmer this time. He tossed his head back in surprise at the change, bowing his back against the bed. She listened carefully, his breath panting and fast, but not quite where she wanted it. 

 

Emma leaned forward again, dropping her head to drag her tongue along the scar on his chest, moving upwards to circle the pink tip of his nipple, framed by the lines of the leather brace above and below. His head turned away from her to the side, harsh little pants and straining muscles, and she stopped her strokes, went back to open handed brushes at his cue, lightly grazing over hard silken skin, palming the sensitive tip with each pass until his breathing slowed again. 

 

He turned his head back towards her, his hair a chaotic mess, his eyes meeting her own, understanding the game. She smiled at him slowly, waited until his body relaxed, until his urgent gasps became more measured, his eyes closing in quiet reverent enjoyment.

 

And then she moved, sliding down slightly, leaning over him to grasp the base of him in her hand as she took him into her mouth. 

 

“Oh Gods,” he cried out as her lips circled around him, his hook digging into the bed behind her. His hand scrubbed involuntarily across his face, keening cries muffled by his palm as she dipped and tasted, bringing him in deeper. Emma moaned against him, swirled her tongue and sucked as he babbled something unintelligible into his hand above her.

 

Every pleasured noise he made sent a thrill through her, a pang straight to where she was wet and aching and she  _ needed _ more. She ran her tongue up his length, circled the tip, delighting in her broken name falling from his mouth. She rubbed her thighs together for more friction, throbbing to feel him against her, inside her. She dipped her head again, taking him in fully.

 

“Bloody-” he bit off a curse, jerking, fisting his hand into the sheets as she slowly drug her mouth back up, one tiny delicate suck on the top, before she moved her hand in again to resume the fine gossamer strokes. 

 

He eased on elbows back against the bed, still breathing hard and she pressed a kiss to his stomach, curling around him to continue her work, more soft open palmed drags against him until his breathing slowed, and he relaxed his grip on the sheets. 

 

She needed  _ more _ though, the lack of friction had left her hollow and clenching. The noises he made, the his neck straining, his face blown in unrestrained ecstasy, made her want more than she had ever wanted. She could still taste him on her tongue, could feel him in her mouth and she needed him  _ everywhere _ . 

 

“Killian,” she murmured against his stomach, fine hair tickling her chin. He rose up a bit, looking down the length of his body. “I need you to do something.” 

 

“Anything,” he whispered to the ceiling his head falling back as she ghosted her hand across his length again.

 

“I need to feel you,” she stroked again. It was earlier than she had necessarily planned, but like every day so far with him she couldn't seem to keep herself in check, couldn't seem to control herself around him.

 

“Okay,” he murmured, his eyes falling closed. He didn't seem to realize what she meant, jolting in surprise when she rose up, sliding her legs across him.

 

“Emma,” he pleaded, putting it together, he looked momentarily terrified.

 

“Killian,” she replied, a gentle command. “Lay back.” He compiled automatically, though still trembling and wary eyed, letting her take control. “Trust me.” It was half question, half plea. He nodded, and swallowed hard. That little nod buzzed along her skin, filled her chest with warmth, made her eyes burn against her will. He trusted her.

 

Emma swallowed the sudden rush of emotion down, focused on her task, ran her hands lightly across his chest, again and again, giving him a moment to calm, and then moved them back down again. He froze as she took him in hand, inhaling through his clenched teeth, almost pained, a soft stroke, then another, and then she lifted herself to slowly draw him in. 

 

She sank down in tiny measured increments, anticipation clawing at her insides, her body needing her to just let go, but he needed this more, he was a stretched wire ready to snap beneath her, and she wanted to give it to him, wanted to be worthy of his trust. She sank down gently, slick and ready, and let out a tiny gasp as something snapped into place, like a missing puzzle piece, filling her up just so, easing the ache with perfect warmth.

 

“Oh,” it was barely a word, a broken vowel falling from his lips, a prayer spoken aloud. “I can't-” he stammered brokenly, his head shaking back and forth on the pillow, and she placed a steadying hand on his chest, felt his heart keeping quicktime under her hand. Her body was screaming for her to  _ move _ , craving that primal drag against her, but she remained still and calm, allowing him to adjust to her wet and clenched around him, counting the spaces between his breaths, the beats of his heart. His eyes were black in the dim light, burning into her own, biting so hard into his lip she feared he would break the skin. Still, she waited.

 

When he slowly sank down into the bed, his fingers unfurling, she moved again, a small fractional rise, the delicious pull of heat on heat, and his hand clenched again as she came back down, that wonderful noise caught once more in his throat. It wasn't nearly enough, she wanted to grind down against him, roll her hips with abandon, feel him buck and rock beneath her, the delicious slap of skin meeting skin, but this was about Killian, and there was time for that later. Emma waited again, rose again, sinking down, delighting in the friction, and he tilted up this time, meeting her halfway, his entire body shaking, fine beads of sweat at his brow.

 

“What do you need me to do?” he was panting, cheeks tinted pink, looking at her intently with wild feverish eyes. 

 

“Just watch,” she commanded, and he nodded, laying back hesitantly, looking unsure, but also completely wrecked, his hair sticking up wildly, his lip swollen from ravenous kisses and biting teeth. He was half out of his mind with sensation, he needed something to focus on other than fear and raw nerves.

 

Emma had spent many lonely nights absorbed in her own pleasure in the vast castle over the years, she knew what she liked, but it had been some time she’d had an audience. She had never really enjoyed it much, but Killian’s eyes, so intent and earnest on her own, needing this distraction to keep his own busy mind at bay, made all the difference, a tiny thrill settling between her shoulders as she ran her hand down to circle her breast, gentle tugs and swirls around the pink tips. He seemed to memorize every move, gave her his complete focus, the tip of his tongue pressing against his lip in studious lust filled devotion. It made her feel powerful in a way her magic never could. She squeezed and rolled the peak between her fingers, trickles of pleasure traveling down to where they were joined, little jolts of sensation that she suspected had more to do with his eyes on her, worshipful and awed, than her actions. 

 

He followed her other hand with his gaze as it snaked down her stomach, dipping down to brush the base of him briefly, before coming back up to center. She rose up again, as she touched herself, keeping her eyes fixed on his face. He looked crazed, the cords of his neck straining, trying valiantly to still the little jerks of his hips as he sought to go deeper, take more, pure animal instinct moving his body against his will. Some dark part of her wanted to allow him to let go, to rut against her with animalistic abandon, take her hard and fast and dirty, see just how much he would let go. But afterwards he would feel awful, guilty, his inherent need to please others first would ruin this beautiful moment. 

 

Emma sank slowly back down again, and wonderful sparks of pleasure accompanied every movement as her fingers swirled and teased, as he stretched and filled her. She rose and fell again, achingly slow ebbs and flows that made her clench around him as her fingers worked in rapid strokes along her center.

 

He was gasping again on the third rise and fall, trembling to hold himself back, so she stilled and waited once more, absorbing herself in her own indulgence while he calmed, building herself up so she could come tumbling down after him, leaning back so he could take it in. Killian watched her with rapt fascination, as her breathing picked up, her chest heaved, legs trembling with every slick stroke and swirl.

 

“Can I-” his voice was husky and hoarse, and he licked his lips, hesitating. “-assist you? Like before?”

 

Emma drew her hand away, trying not to grin too hard, pride filling the aching spaces between her ribs. She had hoped he would ask exactly that, and she nodded, reaching for his hand.

 

“Do you need me to show you?” She asked, suddenly breathless, no judgement in the question. He hesitantly shook his head, straining against her, but determined to please. Emma’s smile widened, and she rewarded him with one more slow rise up, sinking back down with a firm rock of her hips. His eyes fluttered, teeth clenching as he held himself back. 

 

He let her guide him to her where she wanted him, adjusted the angle of his hand on his own, and just as she had shown him the day before he found exactly what she needed. Emma could barely concentrate on the rise and fall of his chest, the rough pants from his mouth, the spaces between his breaths as she intermittently rocked against him, chasing his hand with her hips, wanting him deeper. His fingers would still against her in brief intervals, overcome with his own pleasure, unable to concentrate on both, before he would resume their smooth circular slide, gliding over her, making her clench around him every time he hit the perfect spot.

 

The bedroom echoed back harsh moans and keens, dirty shadows on the stone wall as she brought herself up, and joined him again in a rapidly increasing pace, his fingers moving in time to the rhythm she set, prompting her to speed and slow as she willed. He didn't last much longer at that pace, but Emma was no longer cognizant enough to stop, mindless with her own need, and his hand retracted to grasp her hip as he let out a cry, snapping his hips up and arching against her with the force of his release. She sensed he was going to apologize again, feel completely unwarranted shame for coming first, but she just grabbed his hand, moving it back to where he was before, put his mind to work again so he couldn't fret or worry. She was so close her skin was buzzing with sharp little jolts that tugged at her belly, lit her skin on fire, the endless torment of working him up and bringing him down, watching him moan and writhe, had made her oversensitive and raw. She urged him to focus on what he was doing rather than what he had done, his fingers finding her easily, resuming the same perfect rhythm, synced with her pounding pulse. It was mere moments before she followed him over the edge, could still feel him half hard within her as she ground down, riding the waves against him as she fluttered and clenched and cried out. 

 

He eased her down afterwards with a soft hand at her back, her skin still twitching with little aftershocks, and helped her to stretch out across the rapid rise and fall of his sweat slicked chest. 

 

“That was amazing,” she breathed, and lazily pressed a kiss to his skin, salty and warm, barely able to move her head she was so boneless and weak. He looked down at her surprised.

 

“Really?” His face was so pleased, so bashfully eager, she couldn't resist teasing him. 

 

“Oh, you didn't think so?” she tried to affect her most regal tone, an eyebrow raised, biting back a laugh as he stammered and shook his head. 

 

“No! It was-” he blustered. “I don't think you-” he tried again, his hook waving wildly behind her in protest. “It was the most-”.

 

“Killian,” Emma said with a laugh drawing him out of his fumbling. “I'm joking.” He stilled, a small disbelieving smile spreading across his face like morning light, and he drew her closer. 

 

“It was perfect,” she said sincerely. And it had been, every part of her filled with quiet, sated heat, the darkness having retreated into the recesses of her mind, banished back by pride and warm affection. 

 

“No one has ever done this for me before,” he said softly, after another moment, finally finding the words. “I didn't know I could, still don't know honestly, but you made it  _ seem _ like I can. Thank you.”

 

It broke her heart, all this untapped potential, this beautiful man and the terrible way he had been treated, still so grateful despite it. Against her will, an image of him, just as eager, just as earnest, craving nothing more than warm regard, the possibility of friendship in the galley of a strange new ship, while horrible men tricked and took advantage, flashed in her head, the darkness stirred with the promise of vengeance, quieted by sated desire but always there, whispering. 

 

Emma pulled the blanket up around them, laying against him again, she pressed her lips against his chest once more, and held him tighter.

 

______

 

When Killian had thought about this day, admittedly far too often in the years of his life, and ever increasingly as they carried on, while he remained static and stuck, he had never been particular about the details. 

 

In his youth, the future brighter and more promising, he had thought of lovely lasses he could pledge his heart to once he was freed from his debt, imagined magical chance encounters on city streets as they made port, the rose cheeked daughters of simple merchants or fishermen, blushing their hellos. Of giving himself to them in lovely stolen moments, or after vows exchanged in tiny candlelit chapels. He saw them on the streets as he ran errands for the Captain, with their modest dresses and clean shining hair, their eyes catching his as they passed, small smiles and blushing cheeks, and thought that Liam would have like them. 

 

After he’d been traded to Blackbeard the fantasies shifted, to powdered women in dimly lit bars, ample breasts spilling out of corsets, elaborate wigs and the scent of flowery oils and perfumes on their skin, burning his nose, covering up the odors of sex and sweat. Women who swore and tossed back hard liquor without batting an eyelash, who dealt in games of dice and cards and sex with skill and cunning. Who didn't so much smile as sneer. Liam would have hated them. 

 

He assumed at some point there would be a brief emotionless encounter in some bawdy house, money exchanged, the sex detatched and utilitarian, another emotionless trade of money for flesh. He didn't mind it much, that’s how it was done in these new dark circles he dwelt in. Pirates had no want for love or romance and neither should he, not if he wanted to belong, to survive. 

 

But then he’d lost his hand, and every time he tried it was always just  _ too much _ . Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much perfume, too many questions:  _ How had he lost it? Was it a tale full of adventure and bravery? A daring pirate battle? Would he want to use it on them? Could he take it off before? Could he leave it on? What was wrong with him?  _

 

Every time his chest had tightened, remembering those horrible weeks, leaving him cold and anxious, his hook shoved underneath tables or inside large dirty coats, hidden by sleeves and in pockets. He’d stutter and blush, feel the eyes of the crew who had taken so much watching his every move, mocking him, circling like sharks, blood in the water. He’d go soft and shy, stammering and weak, offering apologies instead of propositions. They would try to coax him back, with seductive looks and exploring hands, but all he could think of was the dark.

 

It was a rare time in Killian’s life when stark reality was better than anything he could have imagined. When the real world outshone the fantasy. When life made him question if he was awake or still dreaming. 

 

He was Paris of Troy, understanding with sudden absolute clarity why one would go to war for this, would set cities ablaze and cut men down to keep it, why someone would sacrifice everything to hold onto it for just a little longer, experience it again and again. Blood for lust, pleasure for pain, skin for strife, they all made a perfect amount of sense lying in the afterglow, feeling Emma warm against him, his mind blissfully clear and calm but grasping to hold on to these moments, possessive and yearning and waiting for it to crumble. For if he was Paris than she was Helen, born of swan and woman, her birth celebrated in the stars, wistful and sorrowful as she grew to regret the rash choice she had made, pining for her old life. 

 

Killian pushed the thoughts away, focused on Emma’s lips on his skin, the feel of her hair draped across his arm, the curve of her back pressing against it, grounded himself to earth with the rise and fall of her breath. He looked over his shoulder at the window, pinkish red light having replaced the grays and blacks.

 

“We missed the sunrise,” he said finally, breaking the silence, antsy with the quiet, needing to hear her speak after his declaration. She had been still and silent since, dancing lightly across his skin with fingertips, pressing her lips to him but not speaking a word in acknowledgement. 

 

“This was better,” he could feel her cheeks pull into a smile against his chest, and his heart fluttered.  _ Perfect  _ she had said. Had anyone ever said the like?

 

“We could make one up,” he offered, flushing instantly. It was an old game, a childish one, but one he’d played many times. Imagining blue skies instead of low black ceiling, billowing clouds and salty air instead of sewage and rotting fish. 

 

He’d had no use for fairy stories, they were too farfetched and out of reach to bring him comfort, but he had seen many a beautiful day with his own eyes, watched the sun rise over the water in brilliant painted colors, seen twinkling stars make pictures of gods and goddesses on clear nights. Those things he  _ knew _ existed, they could only be taken away from him by death itself, and those were the imaginings he turned to for comfort. 

 

Emma tilted her head up to look at him, familiar curiosity in her eyes despite the neutral set of her face. He blushed further, his neck hot. 

 

“Make one up?” She shifted, sensing his discomfort, looking up at him with avid interest, her eyes dark in the morning light.

 

“Oh aye,” he settled back, emboldened by the lack of dismissal. “It’s going to storm tonight, and we’re closer to the north, so I reckon the sky was a lot of reds and pinks. All kind of, swirling together,” he raised his hand, twisting it to illustrate what he meant. It wasn't a very eloquent description, he was no poet, and he had never shared his inner musings in such a way before. He stopped, biting his lip to hold the words in before she thought him mad or simple minded.

 

“No. Keep going,” Emma said firmly. “What else did it have?”

 

“Uh, well,” he flashed a nervous smile at her. “There’s a certain kind of cloud on storm mornings, beautiful, a sort of rippling blanket of them, across the entire sky, light on the top, darker on the bottom, on account they’re filled with rain and the like, see?” he dared a look down at her.

 

“I do. Go on,” her expression was impossible to decipher, that marble mask she wore, but her eyes were a glittering brilliant green. 

 

“Storm mornings are the loveliest sunrises,” he couldn't look at her as he went on, it was too intense, embarrassing, but he kept going, weaving memory into the imagining, recalling some of his favorites, wanting to do them justice. 

 

“The aftermath isn't pretty, of course, but you always get the sunrise first. The clouds kind of diffuse the colors, all those different tones and shades blending together, until the whole sky looks like it's been set alight. Like being inside an inferno.” 

 

“Are there birds?” Emma asked. The question was so out of nowhere it made him smile.

 

“Pardon?” 

 

“You said ‘sometimes there's birds’. Were there birds in this sunrise?” 

 

“Aye, if you like,” he was grinning now, her eyes were practically twinkling. 

 

“How do you know there’s going to be a storm?” she asked curiously, lifting up. She stretched a bit, a truly distracting sight, all those curves, the swell of her breasts, her hair tumbling in silver ringlets down her back. He wanted to dig his hook into his leg again, confirm he truly wasn't dreaming. She couldn't possibly be real, and here with him.

 

He blinked.

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

“You said there will be a storm this evening, how do you know?” She smiled at him coyly. “You were a bit distracted during the  _ actual  _ sunrise.” 

 

“Oh I-” he frowned a bit. “I dunno. I've spent a life at sea, you just kind of sense these things.”

 

“Well,  _ I _ sense that I'm starving,” Emma put a hand to her stomach, and he followed the motion, tracing down her form. He reddened when he looked up, caught staring. Emma smiled. “So, now that we’ve  _ seen _ the sunrise, food?” 

 

“Aye, it’s just-” he looked down at his bare chest. “My clothing seems to keep disappearing.” It was part cheek, part embarrassment, and he gave her a small smile under his lashes. 

 

“Oh, you don't need clothes,” she had that wicked look again. Heat traveled up his neck. Emma waved her hand, and a small tray appeared on the bed before them, fruits and pastries, and other decadent treats. 

 

“That’s amazing,” he breathed out. Emma laughed. 

 

“You’ve seen me cover an entire table in food,” she reached out, picking up something delicate and flaky.

 

“I know, I just... it's incredible, what you can do. Your magic.” 

 

Killian drew the blanket in tighter around him, feeling oddly exposed. He hadn't ever eaten naked before, had rarely ever been naked this long, save for bathing. 

 

Emma, however, was bold as brass, stretched out distractingly next to him, her breasts rosy in the morning light, her skin glowing and pink from their activities. He shook his head. If this  _ was _ a dream, if he woke up to digging hammock rope instead of soft linen, the scent of sweaty unwashed men instead of rose tinted skin and the sweet lingering hint of their coupling in the air, he wanted it to last as long as possible, the thought of going back to that, to his old life, after all of  _ this _ , after Emma, was almost unbearable. 

 

Killian’s heart quickened in his chest at the thought, anxiety creeping in again, and he grabbed a matching pastry, shoving it into his mouth to distract himself, agitated that he was allowing his worries to marr such a perfect moment. But when he looked up, to solidify her presence in his mind, comfort himself with her seemingly sated and happy and  _ with him _ , Emma was smiling tightly at her lap across the bed, her expression troubled once again. 

 

The flakey honeyed crust turned to ash in his mouth, his teeth chewing against tasteless sand. He had said something wrong, done something wrong. He swallowed, smiled at her weakly, took in her silver hair, her beautiful face, here with him despite everything she had at her fingertips, the entire world open to her. In his head echoed a quote from his well worn book, one of many that circled in his mind from so many repeated readings.

 

_ Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed. You will never be more lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again. _

 

_____

 

_ “Is it a curse?” _

 

Innocent words echoed in Emma’s ears as he praised her magic in that same earnest voice, so awed, so appreciative, even the tiniest things amazing him, a tray of simple food conjured from air, wanting to  _ know _ her. 

 

_ Don't  _ the darkness warned. 

 

But she had promised, may not have sworn the oath aloud but she had promised, to try, to reciprocate in kind as much as she was able. The image of the golden glow of a black dreamcatcher, three perfectly imperfect shells rattling against each other, his stolen memory trapped within it, spurned her on.

 

“I’ve always had it,” Emma blurted, shoving the darkness and its warnings forcefully away. Killian blinked over at her confused. He had been staring at nothing, chewing silently, lost in his own thoughts.

 

A brief rush of anxious concern, searching his face had her wondering if perhaps they had gone too fast, if she had pushed him too far, if he regretted the series of blissfully perfect moments that had taken the place of the dawn. 

 

“The pastry?” he glanced down at the fruit tart clutched in her hand. Emma flushed, smiling despite herself. 

 

“No,” she put it awkwardly back on the tray, her appetite failing her. Killian too didn't look particularly hungry anymore, the weight of some burden she couldn't see making his shoulders sag, his half eaten breakfast sitting limply in his hand. 

 

“My magic,” she said hesitantly. He sat to attention then, raising up so the blanket fell away. Emma waved her hand, part practicality, part demonstration, whisking away the tray, and the half eaten tart in his grip.

 

“Oh,” he said finally, fingers flexing at its absence. “So you were born a… Dark One?” His question was hesitant and unsure, tripping over the title. Emma shook her head.

 

“No,” she didn't want to talk about that, not yet. She slid across the bed again, needing to feel him, slipped under the covers he had tucked protectively around himself, his legs warm as she moved onto his lap.

 

He was startled, and confused, hand and hook going automatically around her, hovering in the air above her body but not quite touching her. It was ridiculous considering he had been inside her not moments before, but he was still learning, still unsure, she had to remember that, had to keep reminding herself, rein herself in, maintain control. 

 

Emma shifted closer, tugging his arms down to rest on her waist, the jut of her hip, guiding him around her until he was settled. He looked down at their laps and back up again, totally bewildered.

 

“I thought you were-” he started to speak, misunderstanding her intent, the physical gesture throwing him off. 

 

“No, I am,” Emma said. She sounded a bit breathless, nerves making her heart race, the darkness clawing at her chest in protest. “I just wanted to feel you...it helps.” Killian nodded, hesitantly. 

 

“Alright,” he settled his arms further, caging her against his chest as they sat face to face, practically breathing each other's air. It was a long moment before she spoke, just breathing, watching his eyes flit across her with restless energy, unsure of what was happening.

 

“My parents found out when I was three,” she said, and ducked her head down, his eyes were too intense, locking on her own as she spoke again, giving her his full attention. She laid on the slope of his shoulder, her lips ghosting across the place where his neck and shoulder joined with every word. “There had been other...incidents. Things falling over, candles snuffing out on their own around the castle, that kind of thing.” 

 

“Castle?” He looked around, she could feel his head twist, she pressed her lips against his neck as it moved. “This castle?” 

 

“No, different castle,” he breathed a moment taking that in. She let out a breathy laugh as he echoed back. 

 

“A different  _ castle _ .” 

 

“Yes, shh,” she pressed another kiss to his neck to silence him, lingering for a moment, breathing in warm flesh. 

 

“Okay,” he whispered, he clutched her imperceptibly tighter. It helped a bit. “What happened when you were three?” He urged, and she took another moment, just feeling him against her. It wasn't that the memories were particularly bad, her life until a point had been very good, especially when compared to his own, but it didn't lessen the hurt of speaking them aloud, the fear of sharing them with another. The years of living with the losses of everyone she had ever held dear. It made it easier not to think of them, pretend this was all she ever was. 

 

“I was throwing a fit, a huge tantrum, my mother didn't remember over what, but when I looked at it, it was because my father was away.” 

 

Emma nuzzled into him, threading her arms under his, until she could feel the shifting muscles of his back, until she could feel every rise and fall of his chest.

 

“All the candles in the entire hall flared up, like these great big billowing flames, and then went out, and the mirror above the mantle shattered into a million pieces as I basically screamed my head off. That's when she put it together.”

 

“Were you scared?” Killian asked, his voice deep, rumbling through her. 

 

“No I was too angry I think,” Emma said. “My mother was though, she was terrified.”

 

“Well you couldn't have controlled it,” he said reasonably. “You were a child.” Emma ran her hands along his back, the muscles bunching and moving under her palms, so warm, his skin a delightful contrast of rough scars and smooth satin.

 

“She knew that, I know she did, she just-” Emma sighed into him, his fingers moving gently against her back as she shifted closer. “-she’d had bad experiences with magic, it frightened her.”

 

Killian froze, his fingers clutching. 

 

“What did she do?” His voice made her want to weep. He sounded so concerned, so troubled, of course he would jump to the worst possible conclusion, think of her life in the terms of his own, where terrible things happened to children at the hands of their parents, where adults took advantage and left them behind. Her reality was much different.

 

“She sent for my father immediately,” Emma said. “And they tried everything they could to keep me happy so it didn't happen again, spoiled me rotten.” He relaxed.

 

“Ah, I somehow doubt that,” Killian said softly. It prickled at her skin, rubbed her raw, he had no idea how rotten she could be, rotten to her very core. She wanted to pull away, to run, but his fingers moved along her spine, less hesitant now that she was wrapped around him, that he couldn't see her face. She took a breath. 

 

“They were always afraid though, I would lose my temper and they would flinch, I would get upset and they would scramble to fix it,” she sighed against him, rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. “I didn't realize that's what they were doing, they were just my parents, I just thought that's how they were. Always giving, always trying to please.”

 

“What changed?” He asked cautiously, perhaps sensing that something must have, she wouldn't have talked about it otherwise. 

 

“They had my brother,” Emma said, and quickly added, not wanting him to misunderstand. “He was perfect, just the sweetest little boy. I loved him,” she took in a shuddering breath, air ghosting across his skin, so close she could feel goosebumps rise on his flesh from the cool. She could remember tiny hands clutched in her own, bright green eyes and dark hair, “-but they were always so..cautious. Protective of him. He’d sneak into my rooms when he got older, wanting to play, he liked to be Prince Charming to my Princess. He liked fairy stories, and knights. They’d find us playing and they’d look so...scared, afraid of me, and then they’d take him away again. They never left us alone together. He tried to see me anyway. He wasn't ever afraid.”

 

She frowned, her mouth pulling against his skin. It still hurt, even after all these years. Her own parents looking at her with fear, apprehension, tiptoeing around her like a dragon in a cave. The darkness curled around her throat. 

 

Killian too held her tighter, for a different reason altogether, pressing her close so she could feel his heartbeat through her skin, completely flush against him. It seemed so out of order, getting comfort from a man who had suffered far worse, it made her feel guilty and sad, but she selfishly held onto it and true to form he gave it, unquestioningly, didn't compare it to his own, didn't play tit for tat like so many others would, just gave what he could offer. She took in a grateful breath, dug her fingers into his flesh, and continued. 

 

“And one day... I got angry, he had stolen into my room, taken something from me, something stupid, I don't even remember what, and I kind of-” Emma pressed harder against his back with her palms. “ _ Pushed _ him out of my room, into the hall.” 

 

Killian tensed again, always expecting the worst.

 

“I didn't hurt him,” she said quickly. “He was fine, shaken but fine, but you wouldn't have known that by their reactions.” 

 

Emma could feel her eyes burning, and she blinked back the tears, pressed her nose into the space by his neck instead, whispering the rest of the words under his jaw. “So they sent me away, so I could learn to control it, be better with it. Safer.”

 

“How old were you?” He asked.

 

“Fourteen, fifteen? I don't remember,” she sighed against him. Reveled in the feel of his skin on her own, a distraction for her screaming brain, the buzzing along her skin. Heartfelt apologies among packed trunks, her mother crying by the road as the carriage took her away, promises to visit, to see her soon, kept for a time but less and less often as the years wore on and their lives changed, scared of the dark fortress, of their daughter wielding the magic that scared them with abandon. 

 

“I mean, it doesn't compare to-” she swallowed. “-to what your father did but, it was kind of the start of...everything.” 

 

Killian was silent against her, his heart thudding rapidly against her chest. It was ages before he spoke again, her nerves tattered and frayed by the time he opened his mouth. 

 

“Wounds made when we’re young they tend to...tend to linger, and one hurt is much the same as any other,” he murmured finally. 

 

“They said it was to give me my best chance,” Emma said, her voice was suddenly hoarse, rasping against his neck. She moved her hand, the skin of his back so hot against her own she imagined it was searing her fingers. “They couldn't teach me what I needed to know, how to control it, make me safe, so they sent me to someone who could.” 

 

Glittering reptilian skin, snakes eyes and gnarled teeth flashed in her brain. The darkness laughed in his voice. 

 

“It sounds like they meant well,” Killian offered kindly. “But it was...maybe...not what you needed?”

 

“They did,” she drew back, sucked in a shaky breath. “And it wasn't.” The bitter laugh she gave was dark and humorless, cold and hard in the warm air between them. His hand clutched at her back at the sound, his hook chilly against the skin of her side. She was burning up, too hot, she might catch flame. It made her skin itch, her legs burn with the need to  _ move. _

 

“Where did they send you?” Killian’s eyes searched her own, cautious, and careful. 

 

“To the man who owned this castle,” she said softly, a familiar chill rising along her spine, echoing out to her limbs, thrumming in her veins. 

 

“The Dark One.”

 

______

 

Killian had pressed no further, probably remembering her reaction in the bath. He had simply accepted her declaration, his eyes full of questions he wouldn't speak, ones she wasn't ready to answer, let her kiss his lips, long and lingering as her blood burned in her veins, the darkness tearing into her insides. 

 

She had briefly considered having him again, working him up with her hands and mouth until he was hard and ready, riding him dirty and fast and slick, grinding into him, drinking from him, until her skin cooled and she could breathe again. But it was too much for one morning, so much had taken place in so few hours, and she must always remember he was still new to this, still learning, and still unsteady on this new ground, and if she were honest with herself, she was afraid of what she would do. She didn't resent him for it, it was one of the things that made him so special, made her want to know him, learn him. 

 

She didn't want to sully her memories further with new ones, allow her recollections to be threaded with sex and fear. It was better to speak of them with soft touches, warm lips and his comforting words. 

 

He had seemed reluctant to let her go, clutching her hand, asking what she needed, so beautifully earnest, offering up suggestions for how they could spend their day. Reading from his book, telling her the stories of gods and goddesses, a walk on the beach to watch the storm come in, some time in the garden teaching him about the life that grew there, all wonderfully appealing suggestions, beautifully sweet and innocent, but no where near what she required. 

 

She’d stroked his face, traced the line of his scruff, pressed a kiss to his lips, and told him she just needed some time to herself. His swallowing nod, the uncertainty on his face, like a lost little boy, almost broke her, made her turn around, but the darkness was rattling her rib cage, shaking the bars, demanding to be fed. She had defied it too long. She whispered quiet quick orders to work in the garden, take a bath, enjoy his afternoon however he’d like, which he accepted with a reluctant nod, biting his lip. She hated to leave him, knew deep down he was letting dark thoughts move in, but her skin was too hot, her stomach twisting with building energy, her muscles tight.

 

There was a different sort of lust that would satisfy her just as well, the darkness promised as she lingered, there was vengeance waiting and wanting in the dark of her dungeon, wicked men who needed to pay. She had promised him that too, it reminded her. There were other gifts she could give him. He would be so grateful, so appreciative, it hissed. 

 

She armored herself in thick black leather, crimson lips and black feathers in her hair, washing away the loose curls and pale lips of the morning with a wave of her hand as soon as she stole from their room. 

 

The dungeon was quiet as she entered, the click of her boots the signal of a different sort of coming storm. The men held their breath in a single communal gasp of fearful air as she crossed the threshold and grinned. They watched her with wide frightened eyes, their faces a little more drawn today, eyes sunken from neglect, like melting candle wax, sallow in the light. 

 

She paced before their mass cage, back and forth, smiling softly at each one as they looked away, matching feet to cruel kicks, ring covered hands to striking fists, matched mouths with spit sprayed and cruel words uttered. She marked them all and made them each a little promise. She was full of promises today. 

 

The man called Starkey was a broken heap of bulk, propped to barely sitting against the wall. Fractured bones turned his skin purple and blue, yellowing at the edges, and deep cuts had dried open and shining in the light. She’d had her fun with him, repaid the marks on Killian’s chest with her own, recreated the fear on his face on another's. She would come back to him. 

 

Her heels stopped just before the man with the knife, his eye stared back glinting and defiant, his face not quite as worn as the others, still strong, resilient, dangerous with the thick roping scar. That made it all the better. 

 

“You,” she pointed with one black tipped finger, slinking close to the bars. “I need a  _ hunter _ .” She ran it down the metal. “That’s you, right?” If the word registered anything in his tiny little mind he gave no indication, his face stone as he regarded her, no flicker of fear on this one. Excitement crept up her spine. She loved when they weren't afraid.

 

_ How beautifully the brave break  _ the darkness trailed through her mind, whisper slick. She tended to agree.

 

“I need a man with something to prove,” she licked her lips. “And I think you’re the right man for the job.”

 

He stood, at least two heads taller than her, twice as wide, and leaned back.

 

“Is that so?” he murmured, his voice oozed, made her skin crawl in disgust. “Finally decided to trade in for a real man?” 

 

It was amazing, his gall, hungry, dehydrated, stinking of sweat and the musk of the unbathed, and still he felt entitled to her, good enough for  _ her _ . And she would give him everything she had, just not quite in the way he expected.

 

“Hmm, something like that,” she snapped her fingers.

 

Her little room at the back of the dungeon was meant for all sorts of games. Tiny and dim it echoed back the screams in a delightful chorus that made her blood sing along with every cry. Until recently it had sat empty and neglected, but she would fill it with many more echoing moans, begging words, and pleading cries. She had blood to collect and tears. 

 

Evans looked around bewildered, down at his hands bound with thick iron cuffs and chains against the wall. He jerked against them, scowling. 

 

“Not what you had in mind?” Emma asked casually. “I didn't say who I was trading you  _ for _ .” She reminded him. “Your Captain really enjoyed his time here I think. As did your Quartermaster. They were  _ very _ vocal about it.”

 

The cocky gleam was gone from that shifty eye, no mischief there now. It widened in knowing fright, remembering the screams of his Captain, the moans of his Quartermaster, one dead and gone, the other little more than a lump of useless flesh, a shell, and now she’d come for him. 

 

“What do you want?” To the man's credit his voice barely shook, a slight tremor, barely noticeable unless you were well versed in terror. 

 

“Oh it's simple really,” she drew his knife from its sheath at his side, dragging it along his waist, tracing the tip along the leather of his belt. She looked into his eye, made sure he saw her own, black and glimmering, wanted to see the fear in his before she began. She was not disappointed. 

 

“I want you to prove yourself.” 

 

He swallowed, stammered out something she thought was an apology. He seemed so much smaller now, towering above her head but still somehow cowering beneath her feet.

 

“Shhhh,” she murmured. The blade cut into dirty linen, the sweet hiss of pained indrawn breath as she dragged it across the skin, tiny drops of blood giving chase to cold steel. “I'm going to sing you a song. Do you like music?” 

 

He shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again, a leaf shaking on a branch. Another little thrill went up her spine.

 

“I think you’ll know this tune,” she murmured. His shirt fell away in ripped tatters, a bleeding red line marking where the fabric had rent. She pressed it against a curve of life carved muscle, sewn from years at sea, and began to sing in a slow measured voice.

 

“ _ I thought I heard the old man say _ .  _ Leave her, Johnny leave her…” _

  
  


_______

 

Hook allowed himself the lazy indulgence of blankets warmed to body temperature, soft pillows still smelling of Emma and  _ them _ , and limbs slack with boneless, satisfied, weightlessness, for as long as he was able after she left him. Her face had grown cold in stark contrast to warm gentle touches, her eyes darkening with every passing moment, no longer open and shining with unshed tears. 

 

He lazed until the thoughts crept in again, anxious musings emboldened by the lack of purpose, climbing to the front without mindless activity to hinder them. It was disconcerting how quickly the change overtook her face, how different she was from one moment to the next, two very different women inhabiting one body. How rapidly things changed  _ here _ , how quickly they could still. He threw the blankets off.

 

Emma had left him with open ended activities, a set of clothes on the end of bed, only a vague sense of what she wanted him to do, but he would follow them to the letter, for want of anything else. He just needed to move, stop his mind from spinning. He had never been good at being idle, yet another thing he wasn't particularly skilled at, for that's when the memories crept in, the anxiety, the dark edged bitter musings. Better to keep moving, smile through it, keep busy and never think, than ruminate on things he couldn't ever change. 

 

He started in the garden, the conservatory a gray haze, the clouds stretching off as far as the eye could see, from every angle, like a sheet of steel across the sky, the water black beneath them. Even the plants seemed subdued, leaves and petals hanging listless in their tidy rows. 

 

She had a green thumb, or, if she had not brought them up from seed, her magical gift had a way with nature. Something told him they were the work of her own hands though, not the magic in her veins, that didn't seem to be its purpose, bringing forth life, but Emma, that seemed well suited to her.

 

They were all healthy and whole, an array of types that were neither sparse and uniform, nor overwhelming with variety. There were lovely flowers and strong broad leaved perennials, exotic looking orchids, and more familiar types as well, kinds he had seen in shops and in city parks. He knew none of their names, but he vowed to learn, to find out the particulars of their care and keeping. 

 

His little green plant was none the worse for its recent bout with chaos, and he gave it a little water, checked jade leaves for signs of distress, ran his fingers over thick filmy silk, not entirely sure what he was looking for, but wanting to know it was doing okay. Hook whispered it a good morning and took in the rest of the glass room.

 

Emma’s well ordered existence was more a burden than a blessing for a man needing work. There was little for him to do. He wandered the rows, watered the ones whose soil felt dry to the touch, scanned them all for any pests, finding none, and took note of their features for later study. Beyond that, there was nothing more they needed, and it made him antsy. 

 

The bath was better. 

 

Without Emma it required quite a bit to fill the huge yawning tub. And his morning was occupied with, instead of anxious thoughts, mindless tasks like finding water, lighting the stove, filling the large copper kettle in the barren kitchen from the little used pump, dragging the hot cauldron down the corridor to the bath, over and over again, until there was a serviceable amount. It was small wonder this wasn't a frequent indulgence if one didn't live with a goddess, it took him the better part of the morning just to cover his thighs in the lukewarm water. 

 

Hook suddenly appreciated the efficiency of the madams of the brothels, the put upon sighs and glares that had him flushing and stammering out apologies, they all made a great deal more sense now. Baths were rare on the ship itself, and he was hardly ever trusted with the galley stove or hot boiling water. He managed now though, only spilling a little, keeping the fire contained in its iron grate. 

 

It was certainly chillier than the tempting soaks with Emma, much less pleasurable to be sure, but it was also a far cry from scrubbing the important bits with a dirty rag in dark corners of the ship surrounded by stinking men, kept him from attempting to reconcile the gentle fairy queen from his bed with the dark beauty who had left his room, and more importantly, quieted the noises of the castle, the faint cries of pain, another ghost howling and pleading at the far end of the keep. He scrubbed harder, splashing a bit more than necessary to cover the sounds, lying in the tub so the water covered his ears and all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. 

 

He waited like that until the water grew cold, until the thoughts began to intrude again, and then he dressed to the sounds of screams. 

 

Hook supposed he should feel worse than he did, grasp onto some measure of sympathy for the poor wretched soul. It was much like that first night, hearing the cries of a man he had no love for. The agonized screams were certainly uncomfortable, making the hair on his neck stand on end, little pinpricks against his skin, but they were also very familiar. 

 

He had heard the same echoing in his ears from his own mouth, watched as others were cut down in front of him, the sounds of battle and bloodshed on the deck as he tried to keep clear of the fray, be useful in some capacity even if he couldn't properly wield a weapon, and could barely think for fear. They were the cries of the public floggings he wasn’t brave enough to watch, of men begging for their lives at the end of other’s blades, and captured ships burning and smoldering on the sea as they left them behind. 

 

What  _ truly _ unnerved him was warm lips and soft skin, silver curls and red rimmed eyes, clutching him as she told a story of childhood heartbreak, who could then morph, like shifting sands, into the cold mistress of the island from that first day, pulling those screams from men with the same fingers that had gently caressed his face. It had been easier then, he didn't know her then, barely knew her now, but she was merely the harbinger of fated justice in black leather and pale porcelain skin that first night. Now she was Emma, who liked strawberries, and whose skin tinted to match their reddish hue when she was flushed with desire. Emma who looked at him with pride, with sorrow, who let him weep into her palm for a lost brother in candlelight. 

 

He wasn't sure how he should feel, if he should even feel  _ anything _ . The laws of ship life were unerringly cruel, carried out without mercy or regard for suffering, just punishment for crimes committed, and justice for sins against the ship. It was as natural to him as the weather, a system of cause and effect as normal as breathing, the only one he had ever known. Emma’s code was no different, her punishments were more or less the same, but it didn't make it easier to know those cries were on his behalf, those screams for his benefit, because he had failed in the simple task of feeding them, allowing himself to be victim once again. 

 

It was both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. He had dreamed of vengeance in his quiet way for years, sleeping next to the same men who had taken and taken, night after night, enduring their taunts and cruelty most waking hours. He had not the skill nor the mettle to take it for himself, but dark pettiness had reveled in small inconveniences, delighted in injury, and hoped for deserved justice one day. 

 

That day had come it seemed, but it left him cold and empty. 

 

The book that had gotten him through his life, a source of comfort in epic sweeping words, the journey of heroes and gods, brought wisdom once again.

 

_ A man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time. _

 

Hook didn't consider himself a good man, one required action and strength to be truly  _ good _ , but he didn't want to be a vengeful man either. Most of all, he didn't want Emma, her gentle hands, that patient smile, her green eyes shining into his own, to be the instrument of that vengeance. He wanted more with her than that, more than whatever dark purpose her magic served, whatever she would give he would greedily take, starved for it, craving it now, but he didn't want  _ this _ .

 

He took himself down to the beach to escape the din.

 

The air smelled of coming rain, the sense of the sky pressing down, heavy and thick with the impending storm. The wind whipped at his hair, flattened his shirt across his chest, salt spray and grit misting over him as he made his way along the sand. 

 

It was beautiful. 

 

The steel of the sky was now deep smokey gray, the waves rough contrasts of black water and white frothing breaks. He had rarely enjoyed a storm on land. On the ship they were fearsome things, matters of life and death, full of miserable damp, blackened lanterns and snuffed out candles bringing the dark, flashing lightning casting faces in monstrous shadows.

 

But on shore it was a different thing entirely, an infinite feeling of watching the Gods at work, nature at her most powerful, raining down life giving water, sparking with energy and noise. 

 

It was quiet for now, the storm not quite upon them, but he could feel the thrum against his bones, the harsh lash of sand and ocean against his cheeks, filling him with restless energy. 

 

He made his way along the shore, and set to work gathering the wreckage, still dotting the pristine coastline like a plague, the ugly litter of thieving men. Emma could have vanished it with barely a nod, but he wanted to do it for her, gathering wood and cloth and bits of sail, carrying them to small piles along the dunes. 

 

The storm pressed closer. 

 

Hook could feel it inching towards them, but he kept working, picking his way across the beach, broken furniture and discarded dishes, papers and ship’s logs yellowed and faded from the sun. He swept them all up, taking them to the piles, filling a discarded scarf with small shells and pretty rocks he found along the way, a despondent magpie working his way along the coast.

 

“There you are.” 

 

Killian practically leapt out of his skin, her cool voice cutting through the muggy air, over the wind and rush of the ocean. The boards he had gathered dropped to the sand in fumbled surprise as he turned around. 

 

Emma stood behind him on the beach, the castle rising up behind her on the rocks. She looked like a painting, stone spires and ominous skies casting her in stark relief. She was wearing another dress, or something like one, a gauzy dark gray to match the clouds, ghosting over her curves, sheer and flowing, hair trailing down her back in a loose braid, the wind whipping ringlet wisps about her face. He could glimpse her skin through it as she moved, the dark of her nipples, the shadows of her curves. He swallowed.

 

“Sorry.” She apologized and tilted her head, that small smile, those pink lips, no trace of pained cries or damaged screams in her expression, just placid calm and light green eyes. 

  
  


“I-” he motioned to the pile of wood at his feet, his hand shaking, still startled, overcome by the sight of her. “-thought I would clean this up.” 

 

“I thought I told you to  _ enjoy _ your afternoon?” The rebuke was soft, but present. Guilt pricked along his scalp and he scratched at his ear, tugging the lobe. 

 

“I just needed…” he paused, trying to find the word, opting for plain truth. “Quiet?” 

 

She didn't move for a moment and it made him even more restless, his feet shuffling in the sand. 

 

“I'm sorry,” she apologized again. “You won't have to listen to that anymore.”

 

Relief flooded through him.

 

“You’re sending them away,” he couldn't keep the hope out of his voice. He would be happy to see the backs of them. Never to cast eyes on them again.

 

“No,” Emma shook her head, walking towards him. “I'll just make sure to be quieter.”

 

His stomach felt like lead, the cold finality of her voice sending goosebumps across his arms. He swallowed, tried to smile.

 

“But I'm fine, see?” He looked down at his chest and back up at her. “Not a scratch.”

 

“This isn't about the other day,” she tilted her head, considering. “Well not  _ only _ about the other day.” 

 

She was in his space now, he could feel her warmth in the sea air, her hair catching on the fabric of his shirt. 

 

“Then what it is about?”

 

She was still for a moment, so close he couldn't see her face any longer, practically flush against his chest. He raised his arms, meaning to hold her, settle them along the swell of her hips, pull her closer, but he let them drop uselessly against his side, still unsure if he should. It was foolish considering how they had spent their morning, but he was all elbows and angles, unaware of when it was appropriate to touch and when it wasn't. 

 

“Men like that, men who hurt others, they have to pay,” she tilted her head up then, green black eyes staring into his, a quiet anger simmering under the surface. “Don't you want them to? For what they did to you?”

  
  


A decade of torment, cruel words, blades flashing in the sun, rough hands and booted feet, thick black leather braids striking his back. A thousand crimes burned into his brain, ones he had pushed away, ignored, cast aside, shoved down into the deepest recesses of his mind. That's just how it was. This was life. Punishment for being weak, for being cowardly. Divine penance for his choices, for not being strong enough, brave enough. For not being  _ enough _ . That was what he deserved. 

 

When he answered he did so honestly, with all the conviction he could muster. No tremor in his voice, no stutter, just hoarse honesty. 

 

“I don't know.”

 

Emma smiled, bright and brilliant in the gray light, it stole the breath from his lungs.

 

“Well  _ I  _ do,” she grabbed one of his arms, sliding it along the curve of her waist, moving into him, and automatically his other arm came up around her, moving on its own to clutch her against him. He could feel her heat through the nothing of her dress, a thin gossamer veil of fabric.

 

“Now,” she murmured. “No more about them. It’s just us now,” she pressed her lips against him, soft and warm, a sweet gentle kiss, a soft pull and tug. His eyes fluttered closed, protests fading as she kissed the guilt away. _Just_ _us_ echoing in his ears.

 

“You were right about the storm,” she moved her mouth across his face, slowly, reverently, teeth scraping against his neck, little shivers of pleasure snaking down his spine. 

 

“Life at sea,” he said weakly, clenching his teeth as she nipped at his ear, her breath whispering across it, blocking out the wind and sea with moist warmth. 

 

He wanted to say more, explain himself, sort out the jumbled mess of thoughts, the tangle of feelings. Everything was just too fast, and lingering on memory, examining those feelings, left him breathless and anxious even without the heady rush of Emma. Her mouth was white noise, the rush of waves, humming into his brain, softening the edges of his thoughts until there was nothing but her. _Just_ _us_.

 

Emma was turning them, a slow dance in the sand, until he could see the churning sea, the slate of the sky turning darker with every passing moment, threaded with wispy black, a hazy film of rain further out to sea, drawing closer. Wind pulled back his hair, wrapped her dress around him as she ran her hands along his chest, desirous fire licking after, kissed him again with quiet fierceness, all thoughts of screams and dark justice banished by her mouth. 

 

Her hands slid down, dragged along his waist, slipped between them to cup him through the thin fabric of his trousers. He gasped, and jerked into her, his eyes flying open at her touch.

 

“What-,” she kissed him again, smiling into his mouth, their bodies swaying gently as she moved her hand again, down his length, cock hard and straining against its confines with just that simple touch.

 

Across the water lighting lit the sky, the slow rumble of thunder chasing it. Still far away, but drawing rapidly closer.

 

Her hands ghosted along the laces at the front, gentle tugs, and then she slipped inside before he could blink, warm skin against his own, sharp frissons of pleasure jolting down. He jerked against her again, seeking delicious friction.

 

“Bloody-Emma,” he stared down at her in shock. “What are we doing?” 

 

She smiled up at him, her eyebrow arched in devious delight. 

 

“You're watching the storm roll in,” she said and stroked against him. “Don't worry, it's just us.” She repeated that delightful phrase, making his heart sing. Just them, no one else around for leagues and leagues. The entire world, this glorious display of natural beauty, all for them.

 

“I-” he watched in amazement as she slid down his body, freeing him to the sea air. “What are you-”.

 

He had his answer in a moment, his sharp cry lost on the wind as she took him into her mouth, searing hot and wet, setting him ablaze, her knees sinking into the sand as she  _ moaned _ against him. 

 

“Bloody-,” he went to grab her head, but dropped his hand at the last moment, digging nails into his leg instead, his knees buckling. “Gods. Emma.” It was a sharp reprimand, a clench teethed prayer, as she sucked him deeper into slippery heat. 

 

Lightning flashed again, the crack of thunder coming on faster now, the sky darkening before his eyes. Killian gasped as she pulled back, cold ocean air against wet, her tongue moving along his length in long luxurious strokes, buzzing electricity tugging at his belly, wrapping around him.

 

The wind pulled her dress around his legs again, wrapping them in gauzy fabric as she worked her hand against the base of his length, lightning heat coiling down his spine as the sky lit up, reflecting his pleasure back in brilliant purple light. 

 

Emma drew him into her mouth again, slick scathing silk wrapping around every inch. She hummed across him and the soft vibrations of her voice had him jerking forward with sharp intensity, drawing back immediately.

 

“S-sorry,” Killian could barely speak, his breath gasping heaves as her tongue rasped against his skin. She didn't respond, just dipped her head again, a long dirty stroke of her tongue her answer, her hand drawing against him, cupping him as she wrapped her lips around him once more. 

 

The sea was roiling black chaos, in deference to the blood in his veins, the harsh rush in his ears, his entire body zeroed in on the feel of her mouth, the drag of her lips, the swirl of her tongue, her hand stroking him. She moaned against him, moving faster, devouring him whole as lightning rent the sky.

 

The clouds were brilliant black as he threw his head back in glorious agony, overcome with new incredible sensation. The storm was here.

 

He could barely stand, his legs trembling, back arching, every muscle screaming with sensation, everything in him focused on her mouth, trying not to roll his hips, trying not to rock in time to the rhythm she set as she sucked him in, over and over, drawing him deep, deeper, until he was stuttering incoherent syllables against his hand, gasping out her name to be swallowed by the wind, his hand shooting down to clutch at his thigh as everything in the world went quiet, sharp ecstasy the only thing left within it, an explosive burst of all encompassing heat along his spine.

 

The rain started just after, a final kiss pressed to him, just as warm water began falling in huge pounding droplets, finally finding the land. The sand growing darker and wet around them as the sky poured down.

 

Emma stood, smiling, as he tried to keep upright, his entire body weak and sluggish, rain sluicing down his face, past his parted, gasping lips. She tucked him away, helped him lace his pants again when his fingers and hook refused to cooperate, shaking too hard, silver tendrils pressed against her face from the torrenting sheets of water. She was gorgeous, ethereal, like a nymph stolen from the sea, her dress barely there as the rain pressed it against her skin like naked shadows. He couldn't believe she was real.

 

“That was-” he started to say, but lighting cracked the sky, the thunder seconds behind swallowing his words. So he laughed instead, a joyful thing into the wet sea air, ducking down to kiss her his thank you, gratitude on his tongue and praise in his hand as he clutched her to him, smiling against wet rain soaked lips, tasting the sea and Emma as she opened under him.

 

The storm was here, and it was just them. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Notes: I went with a different mechanic for the dreamcatcher, more in line with the old mechanic before this season. Quotes are from The Odyssey and The Iliad on which this fic was based.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always Liz (@caprelloidea) is the reason this is coherent. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, I love it a lot. Thank you to everyone who has given me love for this. I have wept happy tears over some of your comments and things I've seen about it and it means so so much.

_____

 

He tripped over his sword the following morning, half buried in the sand, the guard catching the toe of his boot, sending him sprawling, collected debris scattering along the beach. He swore, turning on his back to face the cursed blade. It certainly summed up his relationship with the blasted thing, a useless inconvenience he’d been compelled to carry around, its sole purpose to get caught on doorways and snagged on lines, knock into people he’d rather it hadn't. 

 

Hook reckoned it must have washed up in the storm, or been uncovered by the same, he had passed this stretch of beach at least ten times and never caught sight of it. It was here now though, the pommel glinting dully in the sun. He reached forward, prying it free from the sand.

 

It was truly a pitiful thing, a show piece just for the benefit of the crew. He had rescued it from an unfortunate soul who’d met his demise at another’s hand before he’d pitched the body overboard with all the rest. The man, barely such, had been young, younger than Hook himself at the time, peaceful in repose, his clothes tattered and frayed, a hard life lived and a harder death. Hook remembered seeing the lad, fighting with all he had in the fray as they took his ship and slaughtered his crew, but like most good fights, it had been for naught. Tossed overboard, nameless and forgotten, his last worldly possession falling into the hand of a man who would never wield it.

 

Normally such things would be divided up among the proper share crew, scavenging like vultures over the bodies of the dead, but no one wanted a dull rusty blade, not when finer weapons were regularly on offer, and it was the only prize Hook had ever taken from a hunt, undeserved, but his nonetheless. 

 

He had thought it lost beneath the waves, torn from him as the ocean heaved and churned and claimed him for its own. He hefted it in his hand for a moment and stood, brushing the sand off himself absently with his hook. He had no scabbard for it any longer, vanished away with his clothing that first night, but perhaps Emma could call forth another if he asked. The idea of searching the ship for one was a daunting prospect, dark and ominous on the beach, a haunted shell, a tomb of memory that he couldn't bring himself to go into alone, not without Emma’s steadying presence, soft blue light conjured from thin air banishing the dark.

 

Hook stared at the sword for a long moment, considering. It was a foolish notion. He had carried the thing for years with nary a thought to its upkeep, but looking at it now, free from the taunts and jeers that would have followed him should he have attempted such a thing, he suddenly wanted to see it restored. Wanted that very desperately. 

 

It was not a total loss. The blade appeared salvageable to his untrained eye, dulled by aged patina, rust lining the edges, but no major nicks or gouges in the steel. Hook had taken many that were in worse shape for repair, had spent a fair bit of time waiting outside smiths watching them work on the crew’s weapons, had seen the care and keeping of many blades every night on the ship when the day’s work was done. He hefted it again, and walked back towards the castle, leaving the spilled debris behind, forgotten. 

 

His feet moved of their own accord, overcome with some undefinable need to see this done, to see his blade put to right, free from the embarrassment of mocking gazes, shrewd eyes watching him fumble his way through an unfamiliar task. Now it was just him and this pilfered sword, the last relic of a dead man’s final stand. Decrepit and sad, but perhaps still full of life.

 

At the very least it would keep his mind off Emma, the castle quiet as she’d promised, but heavy with her absence, weighted with the rather discomforting knowledge of her probable activities. The silence was oppressive, and strange, one of many things he had to adjust to with this new life. The ship had always been full of noise, even on quiet nights the ocean had rasped and whispered, the ship had groaned, there were snores and the wheezing breaths of sleeping men. The castle however didn't make a single sound, no creaking wood or whistling wind, just the sounds of his footsteps on the stone echoing and too loud. 

 

He missed Emma.

 

She had lain with him until sleep claimed him, her fingers soft in his hair, had been smiling and cheerful that morning, if not a bit strained, the sky tawny oranges and bright violets once again as they watched the sunrise, no hint of continuing the previous day's activities. He had woken hard and aching, thoughts of her consuming him with heated lust the moment he opened his eyes. But there was no way he could ask for such a thing, initiate it, it was her call. 

 

She had left after breakfast, distracted dark eyed kisses her only goodbye, her mind elsewhere and occupied. It hurt, though that too felt foolish and selfish. Felt like he had done something wrong, even if he couldn't think of what. It could be any number of things really, he often didn't know until the punishment was exacted, and sometimes even then he nursed wounds without knowing the reason behind them. It could also just be  _ him _ indulging in unfounded worry, borrowing trouble, assigning meaning to inconsequence.

 

He could only remind himself of the truth of their situation. He was not the center of her universe, she’d had a life of her own for centuries before him and if his summation was correct, she would for centuries after. He could not expect her full attention every waking hour. He was a blink, a flash of lightning, a mote of dust, in the stretching timeline of her life. He wrapped the familiar feeling around himself like well worn armor, broken in by habit and a lifetime of the same, and set to work. 

 

_____

 

“You’re not even listening,” Emma reprimanded, she gave the limp man’s cheek a smart little pat. He lolled against the wall, a long groan his only response. She tsked, stepping over splayed legs, the bones broken hours ago, standing in between them to ensure she had his full attention, what little consciousness remained.

 

“This is the best part of the song,” she chastised, leaning forward.

 

_ “For the voyage is done and the winds do blow. And it's time for us to leave her.”  _

 

Emma finished singing, one last slice of the knife, and another soft pained cry finishing the tune. 

 

“There,” she hummed in approval, the broken bloody mess in front of her was a mere shadow of his former self, hanging limply by his arms from the chains on the wall, his wrists rubbed raw and oozing. 

 

“Was that so hard?” 

 

_ Good,  _ the darkness praised _. Very good. Let's have another.  _

 

It clapped its hands in giddy delight, emboldened by so much after so long without. Drunk on pain, swimming in vengeance, feeding and growing on the magic she had used so sparingly for so long that was now a regular gift she gave it. It made her dizzy, her skin buzzing, fingers tingling with the need for  _ more.  _

 

A small voice inside her, the one that wasn't the darkness, a pale little girl who had lived for the light, cried out.  _ This is why you came here.  _

 

Emma hesitated, her eyes drifting over the mass of scarred, bleeding flesh that was barely recognizable as a pirate called Evans. He had paid and paid well, and there was still so much more to come. Starkey had yet to receive  _ his _ due, new crimes on his ledger, and there was still the promise of the rest of the crew as well. Plenty of souls who still owed a debt, plenty of screams and tears still left to take. 

 

But it had been hours since she had seen flushing cheeks and bright blue eyes, and her chest was hollowing out, an unfamiliar ache had taken hold, and she felt certain there was only one man who could fill it, and he wasn't cowering in the dungeon or bleeding on her floor. 

 

_ Just a little longer  _ the darkness implored louder.  _ Get us a fresh one. Remember how they treated him. Remember his face, pleading, begging, we need to see it again, on theirs.  _

 

Emma swallowed, the knife dropping limply to her side. 

 

_ “Take a theiven’ hand!”  _ The darkness reminded her in Starkey’s bellowing voice, the grim pronouncement echoing over and over, a chorus of cheers across the water, cool sea air in her hair as she couldn't even watch, an act too terrible to even witness.

 

Emma closed her eyes, and then looked up to the ceiling. Killian was probably up there, waiting for her, anxious with inactivity, his leg shaking as he restlessly turned the pages of a book he wasn't really reading, or out in brilliant summer sun, the wind turning his hair into a riot of wisps and peaks, diligently gathering new wreckage from the evening’s storm and pretty new shells for her collection. The hollow deepened. 

 

She had been so cold to him this morning, her night filled with thoughts of aching retribution, reliving every brutal moment as she watched him sleep, every scream and cry. She was tempted to steal away in the night, continue her work, until he sighed in his sleep, tensing and restless, not quite nightmares, not quite dream lulled peace, but something in between. A natural alertness from years of sleeping near men who wished to harm him, relaxed but never quite relaxing. She couldn't leave him.

 

So she waited, slipped away barely past first light, a rushed and stilted breakfast, the barest brushes of lips as she passed. 

 

What must he be thinking now? His eyes anxious, panic creeping over him, filling with insecurity and fear of the unknown.

 

_ He’s different she says,  _ the darkness mocked.  _ He’s not like the rest.  _

 

“He’s not,” Emma said sharply to the room. The man at her feet whimpered at the sound of her voice, his feet shuffling against the stone as he tried to press away, too weak to go far, too tired to fight much.

 

_ Then prove it, dearie,  _ the darkness hissed.  _ Put him to the test. Surely, someone “different” will keep for a bit longer.  _

 

Agitated, Emma waved her hand with a jerk, Evan’s pitiful form disappearing in a cloud of smoke, the room clean again, and empty. It was easier to breathe with him gone, easier to think. She went to move away. When she dropped her hand to her side again, however, it felt suddenly heavier, her fingers clutching automatically around hard cool leather, something scraping against her thigh back and forth, back and forth, in even, rhythmic strokes.

 

Emma looked down surprised, her grip tightening around the leather cat o’nine tails she found there. The darkness giggled, full of mischief. 

 

Killian’s beautifully earnest face, blushing down at a flask in his hand, nervous and bashful, wanting nothing more than to be accepted, naive and innocent, rose up in her mind, unbidden. 

 

She clenched her fist, tightened her grip around the handle further. 

 

Another flick of a wrist, and the swollen mass of purple and yellow bruises that was Starkey appeared before her, listless and sunken faced, dehydrated and broken. He was barely conscious, his eyes closed, his mouth open and panting in pained grunts as he wheezed through broken ribs and moaned without effort.

 

Emma frowned. That wouldn't do at all. 

 

She stepped forward, ran a golden glowing palm over him, gently, reverently, knitting skin back together, reforging bones, breathing new life back into the man once more, with a serene smile. He straightened immediately, no longer weighed down by agony.

 

He opened one bleary eye, his voice a harsh rasp of almost sobbing sincerity. 

 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.” 

 

Emma and the darkness laughed in a lilting harmony, echoing off the silenced walls. It was so different than Killian’s selfless gratitude, this was appreciation for services rendered, desperate thanks that wouldn't have otherwise fallen from his lips. 

 

“There now,” she soothed. “That’s better, right?” 

 

Starkey nodded hesitantly, awash with relief, flush with magic, the contrast between intense all encompassing pain and sudden wellness no doubt a stark one. He took in deep grateful breaths, flexed newly restored limbs, and looked down in awe at the rapidly receding bruises.

 

Emma hummed a moment. 

 

“It occurred to me-” Emma said, straightening. She crossed the room, back and forth, the leather tails of the whip striking her leg in rhythmic thwaps. Back and forth. Starkey eyed it warily, flinching every time it struck, silver threads of sharp delicious pain on her thigh following each rise and fall. “-that while flogging might have been too good for  _ him.”  _

 

She turned, her eyes flashing. Killian would wait for her. 

 

“That is surely not the case for you.” 

 

She raised her hand and began to sing. 

 

_____

 

Shining steel winked at him in the light and Hook smiled, closing one eye and tilting it up to see the reflection of the other in the blade. It was the first real progress he had made. He set to work again, scrubbing at the metal.

 

The castle did not have an armory, unnecessary considering both its isolation and its owner, so he’d had to make do. Oil from the kitchen, the lid of a copper tea kettle, a bit of fine sand from the beach, candle wax melting over a metal plate, and a ceramic bowl the tools of his unexpected new endeavor. 

 

In truth he had no idea what he was about. He’d never had the opportunity for formal training, guided instruction on how to care for his weapon. Silver kept a lame and docile crew, the vessel too small to warrant much attention from pirates or privateers, the cargo not nearly as valuable a prize for the effort it would take to chase down the slick little ship. And an unarmed crew, most of them indentured, was a docile and penniless crew, less likely to mutiny when times were tough, unable to afford weapons of their own, and only the officers and the Captain himself were armed.

 

By the time he’d been traded to Blackbeard it was too late. He was not some fresh off the teat cabin boy, it was expected he knew. He was too shy to correct the assumption, and his first year aboard was concerned more with learning how to manage the day's tasks with only one working hand, the other a painful mess of healing skin, than learning swordsmanship and battle tactics. After that he’d borrowed against his debt for the brace and the hook, and another period of adjustment, a new way of living life. He had been a pariah already, a joke among the crew, and any new excuse to cut him down or hurt him would have been seized upon with mean spirited zeal if he  _ asked  _ for it.

 

Better to cower and hide in the throws of battle, waiting to die, surviving on blind luck, than endure painful instruction at the hands of those who assuredly hated him. 

 

He scrubbed the blade harder, a paste of oil and sand smeared across copper, clenching his teeth in memory. They’d stolen and hidden the rusty sword more times than he could count, tossing it amongst themselves to keep it away from him at meals, threatening to pitch it overboard with laughing jests. Always the same jokes, asking if he used it to scratch his arse, or pick his teeth, or eat his dinner, since he never swung it in earnest. The sad truth was it would have gotten more use if he  _ had _ used it for those things, as it was, it stayed in its little leather sheath, knocking against his leg, a constant reminder of yet another failure. What good was a pirate who couldn't wield a sword?

 

Hook scoured even harder, the copper lid a blur as he scrubbed and scrubbed, removing rust and spots of age slowly but surely, the true metal underneath emerging, stroke after stroke, teeth bared, the burn of effort straining his shoulder as he bore down harder. 

 

“What are you doing?” 

 

His hand slipped, the copper top skittering away as brilliant lancing pain lit up along his palm where it caught the edge, dulled but still sharp enough, blood falling to the table in rapid raining droplets. He hissed, clutching it to his chest, red smearing against the edge of white linen.

 

“Oh Gods, Killian,” Emma darted forward, crossing the room with unnatural swiftness, reaching out for him. He jerked away automatically, sliding along the bench, back against the wall, half startled by her sudden appearance and speed, half agitated by the pain, a wounded animal cowering in the presence of a predator. 

 

Emma leaned back slowly, her hands still out, hurt flashing across her face, mixing with the worry, and the guilt.

 

“I'm sorry I-” she was in the leather coat again, her hair in its severe silver bun, little white feathers at her temples, her lips as red as the blood dripping down his chest. He swallowed as she finished. “-I didn't mean to startle you.” 

 

“S’fine,” he closed his hand, the wound burning, blood welling up faster in his palm, slick and cool. The cut was deep. He flashed her a pained, uneasy smile, suddenly nauseous. “Not your fault, just bloody clumsy.” 

 

Emma took a hesitant step forward, sensing his wariness. He hated that he’d made her feel that way, wished he had more control over himself, that he could react with mindfulness instead of instinct. It never seemed to be there when he  _ needed _ it, when they were alone together, passions high, coming out in moments of hurt and fear alone. He kept unintentionally causing her pain. He opened his mouth, wanting to apologize, to explain, but the words wouldn't come. Of course.

 

“Can I take a look?” She asked softly. She wouldn't meet his eyes, obviously hurt by his reaction, standing straighter, more formally. Always back and forth, so close in one fleeting second, worlds apart in another. 

 

He nodded, shifting towards her on the bench, holding out his hand, willing her to know that it wasn't because of her that he had cowered. Blood trickled down his wrist, staining the sleeve as well. Making a mess of things, as was his way.

 

She cupped his fist delicately in her palm, gently, slowly, turning it, unfurling loose fingers to see the dark red gash. She sucked in a breath through her nose, lifting her hand. It really was quite deep then. He was afraid to look, tilting his head to the side to stare at the floor instead. His hook felt heavy and leaden on his other wrist, a reminder of wounds handled with far less care, reminding him of the grim importance of the remaining limb. It made him sick.

 

“I can heal it,” she said, more a question than a statement, her hand hovering just above. He nodded quickly, focusing on a bit of uneven stone. It wasn't that he was squeamish, he had seen and experienced far worse, but there was something discomforting about the situation, throwing him off kilter. Emma’s dark gaze. The disparity of their interactions from moment to moment. Frustrated embarrassment over his utter carelessness. The thought of his hand, his  _ only _ hand, damaged and broken now as well. 

 

Her palm glowed with soft golden light in his periphery, and pressed into his bleeding one. Gentle tingling warmth washed immediately over his skin and he closed his eyes, breathed in and out, enjoying the sensation, like warm soothing water trickling over his hand, energy humming into him, soothing the edge of his thoughts. She pulled her hand away slowly, and he flexed, the skin whole and perfect again. If only he’d known her years ago.

 

“That's amazing,” he breathed out looking up at her. “Thank you.” 

 

She seemed even more troubled if that was possible, his face dropping as her eyes flickered to the side, mouth pulling into a frown.

 

“I'm sorry,” he said instantly. “I should have taken greater care, I didn't have a glove I could use-”

 

Before he could get the next word out she had swooped in, her lips soft against him, fingers digging into his cheek. He hrmphed into her mouth in surprise, eyes widening, grabbing onto her arm to steady himself from the sudden movement. 

 

“Be more careful,” she ordered against his lips, her forehead tilting into his, pressing firmly. He nodded, bewildered. It seemed like such a strong reaction to a wound she could handle with nary a thought.

 

“I will,” he barely got those out either before she was kissing him again, her hand sliding up to curl into his hair. His eyes fluttered closed, soft desire trickling down the column of his chest, his heart squeezing. The morning of uncertainty, the wild vagaries of her mood, the wild vagaries of his own, were calmed at once, pushed aside at the mere touch of her tongue against his. He never knew what to expect from her, never knew at any given moment which Emma he would get, how  _ he _ would feel, but one unshakeable certainty so far was that none of that mattered when she kissed him. 

 

“I missed you,” she murmured, those wonderful words again. He squeezed his eyes tighter.

 

“And I you,” it was bloody ridiculous, just hours apart, within the same walls even, but Emma was all he had here. The only thing keeping him on an even keel as he navigated new uncertain waters. 

 

She pressed a knee to the bench between his open legs, her hands still in his hair, just breathing him in. 

 

“What did you do today?” She glanced over to the mess on the table, the various odds and ends he had assembled, his blood drying on the wood. She frowned looking at it, waving a hand to clear it, turning again to do the same to his shirt and skin, pristine once more. 

 

“I found my sword,” he gestured to the blade, deciding not to tell her  _ exactly _ how he had come across it. “Worked on the beach most of the day before that.”

 

“I can tell,” she laughed lightly, tracing the pink tips of his cheeks. “You look kissed by the sun.” 

 

“I believe I've just had that particular honor,” he said shyly, tilting his head up. He had meant it as a complement, grateful for a working brain and a loose tongue, but Emma stopped laughing, her face looking guilty. 

 

_ Back and forth, _ he thought.

 

“Oh I'm definitely not that,” she muttered. 

 

Killian struggled for a moment, unsure of what to say. He couldn't insist he knew differently, that his life was brighter for having her in it, that he found her just as lovely and hard to look at. And he couldn't very well ask her about  _ her _ day, preferring not to think of what exactly she’d been up to for so long, sure she didn't want to speak of it either. 

 

“Apologies for the kettle,” he said instead. “I needed the copper.” 

 

Emma waved a dismissive hand.

 

“So what exactly are you doing to it?” She straddled the bench in front of him, knees brushing, and reached over to run a finger down the blade.

 

He rubbed his head, embarrassed.

 

“Restoring it? I never used it, so it's not in the best of conditions,” he motioned to the dull patches, the hint of rust.

 

“I can fix it,” she went to raise her hand and before Killian knew what he was doing he grabbed it, squeezing it tightly in his own.

 

“Don't,” it was a softly spoken plea. He dropped her hand quickly, stumbling. “I just-I wanted to do it myself.” 

 

Her answering stare was uncomfortable and long, and he tried not to wince, tried to keep his features even and neutral as she studied him.

 

“Okay,” she looked at the assembled things. “Do you need anything for it?” 

 

“No, I can manage,” he was tempted to ask for the scabbard, but didn't, smiling at her and shaking his head instead.

 

“You’ve made excellent progress,” she ran her finger on the brightest spot. “I can't wait to see it after.” 

 

He blushed.

 

“Well not that it will do much  _ good,”  _ he absently touched the guard. “I still can't even use the bloody thing.”

 

“I could show you,” she looked over, eyes bright again. He blinked in surprise. He had figured her magic precluded such things. Reading his mind she rolled her eyes.

 

“I wasn’t always an all powerful immortal sorceress,” she hesitated then, swallowing. On the cusp of revealing something more. He held a breath in anticipation. But she didn't continue.

 

Killian frowned a bit, shifted closer, just a hair.

 

“How did you learn?” The question was soft and imploring. He yearned for more details, these tiny glimpses at the woman beneath. 

 

“My father taught me when I was young,” she said, running her finger down the blade again.

 

“An accomplished swordsman then?” He smiled, encouraging, shifting even closer.

 

“Yes. The greatest in the land,” she frowned down at the sword for a second, and then turned to him, smiling brightly. “We can do lessons in the afternoons, it could be fun, right?” 

 

He swallowed down his disappointment, the tiny flame of frustration, and smiled wider instead. 

 

“Of course. I warn you, I'm dreadfully clumsy,” Emma lifted his hand, pressing them together, palm to palm, smiling. 

 

“Oh I'm aware,” she slid closer, thighs practically touching their legs were splayed so wide. She leaned in. “But you've enjoyed our lessons so far I think.” 

 

Her voice turned husky, her eyes casting down, drifting slowly across his face, down his body, just like that first day it felt like she was touching him her gaze was so intense. He swallowed.

 

“Very much so,” his own voice was hoarse in response. Back and forth he thought again, it seemed it wasn't just Emma. He was like a flint struck near tinder, a spark suddenly alight. 

 

Emma kissed him again, wrapped her arms around him.

 

It felt like he was falling. The sharp sensation like being awoken from sleep by the bottom dropping out, soft mattress breaking his fall as he fell backwards against sudden soft linens and plush pillows.

 

Emma laughed at his expression, at his startled surprise in suddenly being in their room. At suddenly seeing her hair down, lips pale pink above him, the fairy queen delighting in mischief and play was back, a dark gray robe barely concealing her body.

 

“Oh,” he breathed. “We could have walked?”

 

“That would have taken too long,” Emma smiled coyly, leaning down again. 

 

Just tongues and teeth and lips, everything reduced to pulls and tugs, licks and strokes and fire, silken strands brushing against his face. He tried to keep up, receive and give in equal measure, revelling in the sounds, of wet mouths and sucking skin, and Emma’s low mewls of pleasure. She kept kissing him, never breaking, sliding off his lap to his side, his head turning automatically to follow, nails digging into his scalp, drawing him in slowly, bringing him closer, shifting beneath him in lazy, easy movements. 

 

It was so expertly done, such a gradual shift in position, in orientation, his spatial awareness consumed by all encompassing sensation, he barely realized he was leaning on his forearms, trying to keep the connection of their mouths. He never wanted to stop kissing her, there was no better feeling in the world. He stretched out along her body to feel her everywhere, touch her everywhere at once, pressing into her over and over again in a measured lento tempo, chasing the buzzing jolts of sensation as his length moved against soft thigh, the space between them. She rocked up against him, gripping the outside of his thighs with parted legs, pulling him to center.

 

Killian froze, realization drawing him back. Emma looked up from under him mischievously, hair fanning across a dark pillow. So bloody gorgeous it made his heart seize. She just smiled, lifting up, drawing him into her mouth again, sliding against him. But was too late. Anxious awareness had turned his limbs to lead, too big and awkward now, clothes too tight, lumbering above her, every part of him conscious now of its position, its movements, that he was expected to lead, take over.

 

He drew back.

 

“I can't-” he shook his head. “I don't think-” he closed his mouth. 

 

“You were doing fine,” Emma said gently, tugging on his shirt. “Sometimes it's just instinct.” She kissed him again, coaxing him on, trying to pull him back down. 

 

He breathed out through his nose, flustered, moving his mouth against hers in rote memorized movements, trying to get back to mindless indulgence, capture instinct, as she'd said, failing him  _ now _ when he needed it most. Bloody typical. Emma drew back after a moment, looking up at him considering. 

 

“You’re thinking too much,” she said finally. 

 

“I'm sor-” she reached up, pressing her hand to his mouth, shaking her head. He smiled against it despite the curl of embarrassment in his stomach, the frustrated pinch at the back of his neck. 

 

She turned them again, that same expert efficiency, seamless movements, no awkward fumbling or trapped limbs, shifting until she was on top of him once more, a comforting weight, hot and firm pressure where he needed it most. She moved her hand, a light familiar tingle against his skin before he felt her, flesh on delicious flesh, exposed to the air of the room and Emma’s heat seeping into him, filling him with warmth and the sharp tug of lust in his belly. His breath stuttered in his throat, body straining.

 

“Trust me,” she said dryly, leaning down again, wet slickness moving against him, making him gasp, his hips bucking. “There is  _ nothing  _ to apologize for.” 

 

She kissed him again, and took control. 

 

_____

 

Emma painted pictures on his skin with the tips of her fingers, suns and stars, and ocean waves. She sighed into his side, delighting in the feel of him, relaxed and warm against her, the hair on his leg brushing hers in rough rasps as she lazily slid it along his calf. She was practically purring, his hand buried in her hair, gentle rubs of fingers against scalp, liquid warmth following each pull and press. 

 

He  _ had _ waited for her, had fallen into her with the same joyful exuberance he would have if they’d spent the day wrapped in each other's arms. There was no annoyance, no aggravation, no demands made. Just gently passionate kisses, roaming hands, and gasps of grateful pleasure.

 

The darkness was pointedly silent.

 

“What else would you want to learn?” Emma murmured against his skin. The sword had been a surprise, his diligent determination, his resourcefulness, the earnestness as he’d asked her to let him do it on his own. There was something there, a need in his eyes, his face flushed by sun and new purpose. She needed to know more.

 

His hand paused against her scalp. 

 

“What do you mean?” He asked, rumbling against her, his voice lazy and sated, fighting sleep.

 

She propped her chin on his chest, looking up at him. 

 

“I just thought maybe there were other things you didn't have the opportunity to do...before,” she swallowed, all the reasons as to why that was, flashing across her mind. She continued on determined. “Like the sword. You’re not my servant, you don't have to clean things or anything like that to fill your day, Killian.” 

 

“But I-” he looked at her, adorable confusion on his face. “I wanted to?” 

 

She pressed a kiss to his chest.

 

“Just think about it. I have a lot of books here, whatever you need I could get. I know you didn't exactly have a-” she paused. “-normal childhood, tutors and governesses and stuff. Now you can learn whatever you want. Not just how to swing a sword.” 

 

The slow realization on his face, the open mouthed awe, was exactly what she had hoped for, why she had brought it up. It was telling him he was free all over again, now not just in body but in mind as well. It was amazing to her that he didn't realize the implications of his freedom. That the life he’d led was so ingrained that he really couldn't fathom what possibilities freedom even gave him. Freedom to learn. To do nothing if he chose. 

 

The explosion of warmth in her chest at his expression was brilliant, a grin overtaking her own as his eyes flickered through possibilities. He was anxious too, she could tell by the furrowing of his brows, the choice and options overwhelming him in sheer number.

 

“Maybe something you thought about as a child? Something you couldn't do on the ship?” She shrugged, not wanting to tell him what to do, but hoping to help him through it. A compass needle guiding him in.

 

“What did you learn? When you were a child?” He asked suddenly, and she tensed. She had not been expecting such a question, happy to focus on him, but he was clever, catching her off guard through genuine curiosity. 

 

“Um,” she frowned, the only lessons she could think of first where ones in dark castles, cruel games, manipulations designed to prove a point. “Well my father taught me how to wield a sword.” 

 

“You said, what else?” he had that encouraging smile again, patient and kind, but yearning as well, desperate to know. Everything truly was written across his face, every thought, every emotion, a beautiful picture of humanity in wide blue eyes and upturned lips. 

 

“Tracking. My mother was a tracker,” she turned away shifting closer, and he resumed his massage against her scalp, fingers in her hair, pausing occasionally to run through fine tendrils. “She lived in the woods for a time, and learned. She taught me some things.” 

 

“We visited an island once with men and women who could do such a thing, could read the land like a book. It was bloody amazing,” he shifted his arm, pulling her closer, and resumed the slow, measured strokes.

 

“She could tell you anything, just by looking at the leaves, the dirt. Tell you the entire story of the forest,” Emma agreed. “Bloody amazing.” She echoed in a poor attempt at his accent, feeling him chuckle beneath her cheek. 

 

“What else did she teach you?” he asked, whisper soft. Emma pressed a palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his skin, a quiet steady rhythm that soothed the havoc of memory. 

 

“I dunno, just things. Normal things, comportment, arithmetic, she taught me most things herself, didn't want to bring in a tutor, was afraid they would…” Emma stopped speaking. 

 

“Emma?” Killian lifted up, stilling his fingers. She forced a smile.

 

“She just preferred to handle it,” she said finally. In truth her mother had been terrified of someone finding out, Emma slipping up, feared that another’s rules could rankle and upset her daughter and lead to devastating consequences. It was why they had few servants, why she had known few friends. Strangers were dangerous. They gossiped and talked. 

 

Magic was not uncommon in their realm, many people had magic even, but when you had wrested control of the kingdom from a dark practitioner, one who had tormented the populace for over a decade before her eventual downfall, acceptance of the art by the common folk was hard won. Or so they said. 

 

_ “We just don't want people to misunderstand, or be afraid of you. You’re going to lead them some day, Emma.”  _

 

If only that understanding, that lack of fear, had extended to them as well. If only she could have kept it hidden and secret from those she loved too. Things might have been much different. 

 

“It doesn't have to be just academic subjects,” she said looking up at him coyly, changing the subject, soothing the concern on his face the best way she knew how. He tilted an eyebrow in genuine confusion. She shifted, propping herself up on one arm, his hand falling away as she snaked her way back up to his mouth, nipping playfully at his bottom lip, capturing it with her teeth. She let him go with a soothing touch of her tongue against it. He clutched at her arm. “There are plenty of other things we can go over as well.” 

 

“Emma,” instead of the hoarse rasp of lust there was still that quiet concern. That wouldn't do at all. She lifted her leg, moving it more deliberately over him, intent clear.

 

“Don't you want to learn?” She whispered, ducking down, pressing an open mouth to his neck, tasting salt and skin.  

 

“I do,” he said, sounding a bit more choked. “But I want to learn about you as well.” 

 

He pulled back a bit, trying to meet her eyes. It rankled, a promise made to try soothing it slightly, his open sincerity smoothing the edges of jagged annoyance. 

 

“You will,” she insisted. “We have plenty of time for that.” He didn't look so sure, and a small flicker of fear made her heart skip. 

 

The darkness stirred. 

 

“I just need…” she frowned. “Time.” She reiterated, watching his face carefully. 

 

Killian nodded. Still looking unsure. And that was terrifying. She felt her heart pick up speed. 

 

“I know that it can be-” he stopped, and it made her smile despite her worries, watching his face work to find what he wanted to say. “-difficult, to relive those things. You don't have to. Even if all you tell me is who you are  _ now _ . The past can stay where it is.” 

 

Emma’s heart tumbled into her stomach. A roaring rush of guilt, of happiness, of utter and complete sorrow at his complete understanding, wondering about the future, pulled it into knots, swallowed it whole.

 

_ Aww isn't that sweet _ the darkness mocked.  _ Wonder how he’ll feel when he finds out what you did, dearie?  _

 

Emma closed her eyes, could feel Killian’s hand rubbing soothing strokes down her arm. 

 

“Killian I-” she wanted to tell him. To confess. But when she opened her eyes his face was that same beautiful, open earnestness, all the words there, always there. What would they say if she told him? Would he look at her the same way? 

 

_ Let's find out  _ the darkness crooned.  _ Another test.  _

 

_ “ _ I just appreciate you being so understanding,” she said finally, ignoring it. Killian nodded happily against the pillow, his hair sticking up in the back with every movement. It made her want to weep. 

 

“She was afraid they would misunderstand, my magic,” she said quickly. Wanting to give him something. Give him more. Wanting to appease her conscience, even in the smallest measure. “I mean, my mother was. They said people might fear me because of it.” 

 

Killian nodded, rubbing his thumb along her arm. 

 

“They did not know her, gods are hard for mortals to recognize. Standing near her they spoke winged words,” Killian said looking distant. He spoke the words lyrically, like a well read poem, something memorized and ancient. She tilted her head at him curiously and he flushed. 

 

“It’s from my book,” he explained looking away. “I don't know, it just seemed... appropriate? Perhaps they were speaking from experience.” 

 

Emma nodded slowly, her chest squeezing. Most of her young life had been dictated by her parent’s experiences, for good or bad.

 

“I think they mostly spoke from fear,” she said, unable to keep the edge of bitterness out of her voice. “They were too scared to find out.”

 

“An emotion I understand well. Fear of the unknown can bring cowardice to even the best of intentions.” 

 

Emma swallowed, forced a smile, leaned down to press a grateful kiss to his lips, but her mind was spinning, guilt sending it into a whirling dervish. 

 

If only he knew how true that was. 

  
  


_____

 

Killian was quite certain that his feet were in no way connected with his brain. He’d had his suspicions before but it was unquestionable now. His toe caught on his other heel, sending him forward in an awkward trip, barely managing to keep from pitching to the floor of the study. It was at least the fourth time he had done the same, not able to keep his focus on them at the same time he followed Emma’s instructions for his hand.

  
  


He tossed his hair aside and looked up at her, expecting aggravation, or at least mild annoyance, but like all the times before she just smiled at him patiently, and gestured with her wooden sword for him to start again. 

 

“I'm sorry, I just don't think-” he looked down at his boots. “-they work.”

 

“You just have to try to keep them apart. It's not like walking exactly,” she came back over, her hands warm through the fabric of his trousers as she repositioned him, nudging his left forward again with her toe, tilting his hips to the front with her hands. “Remember, lead with the left.” 

 

She looked up at him, her eyes twinkling. She looked so vibrant in her black shirt and dove gray trousers, a dark match for his own, her hair pulled back in a high braid, and it was hard to remember to  _ breathe _ much less worry about his sodding feet. It was bright bedroom eyes in a whole different context, her cheeks flushed with something other than desire, no trace of dark emerald in the green. It was an extra layer of difficulty in concentration, wanting to just stare at her instead of what he should be doing, focusing on his feet.

 

The trousers were a particular problem for him, they hugged the curves of those long legs, and left nothing to the imagination. Never mind that he had seen it all before, didn't even know her name before those legs were burned into his memory, but he  _ knew  _ now. It was very hard to focus on stepping with the opposite foot when she was wearing those trousers. There was the additional problem as well that all he wanted to do was kiss her. Wanted to kiss her desperately. Had wanted to everytime they repeated this, his right foot coming forward automatically without his permission, going to correct and step forward with the other, only to stumble and trip, Emma patiently coming back to correct him. But if he kissed her he wouldn't stop, she wouldn't make him, and he would never learn. 

 

“I do remember,” he said smiling back. “Just  _ after _ I start with the right.” 

 

“Well it's like a waltz,” Emma said. “Left foot, right foot.” She gave a little shimmy to illustrate. His grin widened.

 

“Not a lot of call for  _ waltzing _ on a pirate ship,” he reminded her, the word unfamiliar on his tongue. He had heard of the dance of course, had never spoken it aloud, was unsure what it even entailed, had just heard mention of it in stories of castle parties and balls, a scandalous thing in some of his books, the start of grand romance in others. He flushed.

 

“We would do both,” she said, getting back into position across from him. “Sometimes at the same time.” 

 

“Ah, your father was a skilled dancer as well as a swordsman then?” He asked, raising the wooden sword to mirror her. 

 

“They both were,” she said, no hint of anxiety on her face now as she spoke of the parents she had obviously loved but felt betrayed by, too distracted by their current activities to think on it much. So soft and relaxed with new purpose, a face for summer meadows and picnics on the shore. That was a small blessing at least.

 

“Okay, again.” 

 

He stepped forward. 

 

With his right foot. 

 

He at least managed to keep upright this time, stalling his movements in an awkward lean before she could do the same.

 

“Maybe I should switch to waltzing,” he said sheepishly, straightening and rubbing the wooden rod on the back of his neck in agitation. 

 

Emma tilted her head to the side looking at him. He felt another flush rise up his chest, babbling on.

 

“Although I don't think it will be particularly useful as a defensive-what are you doing?” 

 

Emma had stepped to him, repositioning him as before, but this time she took the wooden sword from his hand, tossing it to the side with the clatter of wood on stone with her own. She nudged his feet together, side by side with the toe of her boot.

 

“That’s a great idea,” she said simply, taking his arm and pressing his hook to her waist. Disappointment and embarrassment tightened his throat despite their close proximity. He knew he had been pretty dismal so far, but he’d hoped to get it eventually, it had only been one lesson after all, and physical things always took him a bit more time, he was just too awkward, his limbs never quite doing what he’d ask them to  _ when _ he asked it, always a step or two behind. 

 

“I can practice,” he said quickly. “When you’re-” he didn't want to say when she was down in the dungeons, “-I can practice.”

 

Emma looked up at him in surprise, her eyes darting across his face. He knew he sounded faintly desperate, childish, and he wondered how much practice it would take for him to stop being a bloody fool in front of her.

 

“Oh no,” she shook her head. “I didn't mean  _ forever _ , I just think it's a good place to start, help get you used to it in a different way.” 

 

She reached up, stroking a warm palm down his cheek, tingling against his beard. He closed his eyes, automatically leaning into it, his heart squeezing. 

 

“You were doing fine, it's not easy changing a lifetime of habit.” 

 

He nodded, smiling weakly. 

 

“Now, the waltz starts with the left. So you’re going to lead eventually but I'll guide you at first, okay?”

 

She took his hand in her own, holding it up. Killian nodded, unsure, but determined to do whatever she thought it would take. To not even be able to get past the first exercise was a depressing thought, and honestly holding a beautiful woman in his arms while she instructed him on how to dance was not exactly a difficult way to learn, even if he never did quite figure it out. At least he would have these perfect moments in time, Emma soft and smiling, looking like a fierce Valkyrie warrior, even with the silly wooden sword, his arms wrapped around her, smelling her hair. It was a far cry from yearning, envious glances at spars between crew on deck, from pretend duels with imaginary opponents, broom in his hand and the jolt of embarrassment at every noise. 

 

“Don't we need, well,” he shuffled nervously in place. “Music?”

 

Emma smiled, and began to hum, raising an eyebrow at him. Even with just that low vibration he could tell she had a lovely voice, that it would be sweet and clear, a siren singing sailors to their doom. He smiled, looking down as she stepped backwards on one of the notes and he followed. He narrowly avoided treading on her feet.

 

“Sorry,” he went to release her but Emma held fast. 

 

“You won't hurt me,” she stopped humming, rolling her eyes. “Just try not to think so much, just follow me, okay? Look at my eyes, not our feet.”

 

It was easier said than done, he was used to looking at his boots, away from people, his eyes perpetually downcast, making sure there was nothing to trip on or fall over, no one to offend, and the habit had him flickering down and back up as Emma started the song again, emphasizing the beat as she stepped back. He followed, one step than another. Every time his eyes flickered she got a bit louder, softer when he met her own again, a gentle well meant reprimand in melody. 

 

It was awkward, always a split second behind, especially on the following step, but Emma kept humming, the rhythm of the notes helping him anticipate what came next. She brought him back to the start, squeezing his hand as she emphasized the beat with her voice, urging him to step forward. Her eyes were new spring leaves, grass peeking above melting snow, her lips soft and tilted as she hummed. 

 

Emma nodded encouragingly, her song sounding more like “uh huh” than the notes for a moment, her toes subtly nudging his to keep him on track, darting little taps before she stepped backwards. He kept going, kept his gaze locked on hers. He could almost hear the music, the typical strings and pianos of life on land substituted with the fiddles and shawms he was more familiar with, so clear and precise was her song. It was obviously one she loved, one she knew well, capturing the subtleties of the music even without voice or instruments. Her soft soothing hum dulled the noise of his brain, her face drawing his focus. He couldn't overthink it, not when he was completely overwhelmed by this woman instead, the perfect distraction for his overactive mind in this and so many things.

 

She was trying not to grin as he completed the little box with their feet again and again, her eyebrow tilted as if to say “See?”. So he grinned for her, smiling so hard he could barely see, not even noticing the subtle shift of her body as she turned them, the series of steps repeating again, the beats closer together now, faster. She helped him turn them again, and again, each step a pitch perfect note in Emma’s thrumming voice. 

 

Killian had never known love. Not in the romantic sense. He’d loved Liam more than life, had felt that love to his very soul, now only a hollow ache. 

 

He had harbored a deep affection for a kind man who gave the gift of words, of poetry, and sweet candy for boys who had never known such, a warmth in his chest when he’d looked at him, thought of him, wished him well. He had read about it in his books. People who braved great peril, faced the most incredible of obstacles just to return to the one they loved, across seas and snowy mountain peaks, in defiance of Gods and men. He had seen it described in lilting poems, in raw heartfelt declarations, in the voices of misty eyed men of the sea as they spoke of the wives they’d left behind, the men lost to battle and bloodshed. Love was not an emotion he had seen firsthand, a pirate ship was not the place for it. Lust and blood and anger were easier to handle, shame and embarrassment the tenants of his life. 

 

But he knew love now. 

 

He could see it, a visible thing in twinkling jade eyes, in a humming pink mouth, rose tinted skin and soft hands pressing into him. It wasn't flowers or brightly colored butterflies, birds in flight and sweet gentle words. It was burning, all encompassing fire, lighting him from within, a beautiful inferno of emotion, consuming him completely. His hand clenched around her own, his breath suddenly short as he put name to what had been plaguing him for so many days. Perhaps since the first. Since freedom fell from her lips and he saw patient understanding on a cold marble face, had seen grace and beauty in a glorious goddess of a woman that should have, by all rights, terrified him completely. 

 

Love was tender caresses, pleading urgent whispers, lust soaked moans and promises to try. Love was hollow absence when they were gone, and sweet beautiful relief when they returned.  _ I missed you. _

 

It was kisses that stopped the world, quieted the mind, and reminded him of the sea. 

 

Love was humming the songs of childhood, gentle reminding taps of boots, and arched encouraging eyebrows. 

 

He almost tripped again, almost blurted it out, his mouth opening against his will, the words pressing against his teeth as he turned them. Leading with his left, the back of his hook pressing into her waist, fingers curled around her hand. Almost whispered them into the air to the tune of gentle melody. 

 

But he was a coward. The words he had spoken to her in comfort were steeped in a lifetime of truth. He had the best of intentions but there was far too much fear. Better to hope than to know. Better to wait than to rush. Emma said she needed time, could barely tell him the easiest of truths. She wouldn't be able to handle the hardest. And he must always remember his place here, beautiful moldable clay, a dust mote in a beam of sunlight, small and transient.

 

Killian swallowed, he kept smiling, and led with his left. 

 

______

 

She wanted to tell him. The need to do so actually crawled across her skin, made her itch and burn, made the hair on her neck stand on end. Killian had stared into her eyes and for a few moments she had been sure he could  _ tell _ , that he could see  _ everything, _ that he could watch the memory replaying in their reflection. But he had only smiled and flushed, looked away none the wiser, his lips tilting at the corner, begging for her to kiss them, gaze flickering down again to watch his feet.

 

What would anger even look like on that face? What words of hatred and faithlessness would be written across it if she came clean? 

 

She had seen him frustrated, had seen him nervous and anxious, sad and beaten down, but never truly angry. Would he forgive her? Could he? He had let truly terrible crimes go unpunished, pushed them away, kept moving, had endured the worst of humanity and still managed to be able to find beauty in the world, sunsets and stars and pretty poems. Would he still be able to see it in her?

 

Some part of her, the dark part whispered that it wasn't as bad as all that. She hadn't done it to be cruel, she had done it from kindness, not wanting him to relive a painful retelling if the means to spare him were at her fingertips. A courtesy. It was such a  _ small _ thing, a single point in time. Surely he would see that. Surely he would appreciate that. How could this even compare in size and scope to the crimes of others against him? A father's abandonment. A Captain’s cruelty. Years of violence and torment at the hands of evil men. How could something born of kindness, of care, be seen as bad?

 

The other part knew better. Nothing good began with dark magic, nothing born of light fed on darkness, no matter the intent. The spell had been woven in threads of black, the memory viewed without his knowledge or his permission. He had asked, had  _ begged  _ her to let it go. He had shared almost everything else without hesitation, but he had kept that one small piece for himself. She had stolen it from him. She hadn’t listened to his pleas. And now it tainted everything in shadow. She couldn't look at him without wondering how he'd survived it. Couldn’t bear to hear him ask her to let them go, forget them, couldn't even explain why she absolutely couldn't, how she knew they didn't deserve that. 

 

Emma clutched her elbows, shivered in the frosty chill of her workroom, an escape from a warm sleeping man whose face made her feel wretched with guilt.

 

_ Show him then,  _ the darkness said, all reasonable quiet temptation. _ Give him something in return.  _

 

“What are you talking about?” her eyes flicked to her periphery, chasing black smoke in the corner of her eye. Always present, always waiting, the strange face in the mirror before the light came on, the flashing fear of objects in the dim before eyes could adjust to sudden black. An idea forming before she could catch hold of it, growing and changing before she could pull it back.

 

The dreamcatchers in the rafters rattled with a breeze that wasn't there, shells and stones clicking, wind rustling through feathers and twine. Not a warning this time, but a solution, a promise. 

 

_ Give him a memory or two.  _ The darkness crooned.  _ The ones you can't speak. Then you’ll be even. Quid pro quo. _

 

“It doesn't work like that,” she said to the empty room. Even as she denied it though her fingers were moving, sticks of cypress and soft twine coming together in her hands. It was on the right track, but she had more in mind. A defiance born of the seed it had planted. 

 

_ Doesn't it though? You showed me yours so I'll show you mine. Flesh for flesh. Eye for an eye.That's how it  _ **_always_ ** _ works. What did you think all those cute little phrases were for, anyway? _

 

“He  _ didn't  _ show me,” she clenched her teeth. “You made me take it from him.” 

 

_ It is rather easy to place blame after the deed is done, isn’t it dearie  _ the darkness grinned, yellow fangs in the corner of her eye.

 

“You told me to take it,” she growled, almost breaking the strip of wood in her hands. 

 

_ Choices, choices! It’s too late now, you made yours. _

 

“Go away,” she muttered. 

 

_ Now, you have to fix it. Make it right. _

 

“I'm going to!” she snapped, her voice shaking. “I'm not going to show him one or two. I'm going to show him  _ all  _ of them. Everything. Then he’ll know  _ exactly  _ what you are.” She sneered at it and then softer, whispered. “What I am.” 

 

The darkness was silent. Unease churned in her stomach, her hands stilling in their movements, anticipation and the small bud of triumph caught in her throat. She looked up, tried to catch the glimpse of dark fog in the corner of her eye. 

 

_ All of them? Not much of a negotiator are you? _

 

Finally the rasping hiss broke through. Emma frowned. 

 

“He has to know all of it. It’s the only way he can understand.”  She resumed working, soft gold making the twine glow as she wound it around, the movements automatic after so long. It would take a great deal of magic for this, a great deal of power. It was a small price to pay in the end. 

 

The darkness seemed to slurp and sip as it lapped it up, took its payment. Unsettling hunger that made her wonder if she had made a very big mistake. If her defiance was truly rebellion or exactly what it wanted. When it spoke again, her hands flying over intricate weaving threads, knots and twists, it was with the quiet whisper of sated pleasure, drunk on power, filled to the brim, her skin on fire, mind screaming. The words it spoke were terrifying, making her doubt grow, making her question who was really leading here, her fingers trembling as they weaved, cold fear clutching at her heart.

 

_ Suit yourself dearie. Give him all of it. Everything. You’re right. It's the only way.  _

 

Uncertainty prickled as she kept moving, kept working, another trick. It  _ wanted  _ her to doubt. Had bucked and kicked and threatened the whole time, afraid for her to share, to open herself, her heart, up to this wonderful new gift, to the beautiful man sleeping in her bed. Doubt was its bread and butter, fear its lifeblood. She had to remember the oldest truth she knew,  _ the dark one lies, the dark one tricks.  _

 

Emma kept going. Using every doubt and fear against it, burning with cold resentful fire, spurned on by hate and heat. She worked until her fingers were rubbed raw from rasping thread, her skin healing the burns automatically, weaved the spell with everything she had. Threaded in midnight cowries, dangling crow feathers, and hanging black and white marbled chaldean cones. She worked until her flesh was on fire, burning from the inside out, her skin feeling flayed and open to the world with vibrant electric current.

 

She threw it on the table and stormed from the room, leaving the darkness behind to laugh and crow, unsure if it was in victory or drunk on dark magic. She no longer cared. She waved her hands to remove too tight clothing, the sharp clicks of her heels turning to muted slaps of bare feet on stone as she stormed naked through the castle to their room.

 

He didn't stir as she slipped inside, the moonlight casting him in pearl white shadows, blanket slung low around his hips, already bare from earlier, his chest rising in a slow rhythm under his brace.

 

Emma slid under the covers, careful not to touch, not to wake him, animalistic mindless need coursing through her veins as she sank into the bed around his legs, taking her over as she leaned down, to pull soft hot flesh into her mouth. Killian murmured something for a moment, then tensed and jerked beneath her, her nails digging into his hip as she worked her tongue against him. 

 

“E-Emma?” he gasped out, clawing awake, bucking up towards her, his hand reaching down to press against her shoulder, simultaneously trying to pull her away in surprise and bring her closer. She ignored him, heard his gasps and the catch of breath in his throat as he came back to awareness, came to life in her mouth, hard in an instant against her tongue.

 

“Gods,” he hissed out through clenched teeth, his hand digging almost painfully before he realized, drawing it away with a jump, clutching the sheets instead. His feet shifted unconsciously along them, legs taut and tight with strain, the feel of all encompassing sensation overwhelming him through the fog. “What are you-?”

 

Emma still didn't respond, her hand working in quick strokes, her other reaching down, finding her center, already throbbing with need, the coursing ebb and flow of magic still scorching her from within, wet and slick against her fingers. She moaned against him as she brushed tender flesh, heard him cry a plea to the sky as he rocked his hips upward.

 

Her blood was thundering in her head, a rhythmic pulse she recaptured in strokes of tongue and quick swirls of fingers, pressing lips to the soft flesh of his thigh, licking long where his leg joined, dragging upward to his stomach as she  _ slithered _ across him, her hands following, nails digging into soft flesh. She barely looked at him, his shoulders raised off the bed to stare down at her in half crazed bewilderment, part lust, part confusion, his hand reaching for her, brushing across the harsh braided bun, past feathers and wisps of silver, as he shifted into sitting, tried to slow her down. 

 

He was hot and soft and smelled divine. She breathed him in with harsh intakes of air through her nose as she nipped and licked her way upwards, her legs sliding along his own, teeth leaving pink lines against his skin in white moonlight.

 

“Emma, please,” it was hard to tell where questioning pleas turned into lustful begging, his hand firm against her hip as she climbed the long lines of his body, biting into tender skin at the juncture of neck and jaw, followed the shell of his ear with her tongue as she slid herself against his leg, breasts brushing his chest as she trapped him between her thighs, started a slow steady rhythm, each rock sending dull beats of pleasure against her core. She grabbed his face to drag his mouth to hers, swallowing his next question, turning it into a low moan as shifted against him. 

 

He gasped into her, could barely keep up with sliding lips and curling tongue, the frenzy of her mouth, as she devoured him, drank him in with long pulling sucks and sips. Her hands roamed in discordant patterns, grabbing, brushing, nails scraping against his scalp, fingers tugging at his hair, and back down again before he could even take another breath, taking him fully into her palm, wanting to feel hard velvet flesh against wet fire, sliding him down the front of her, raising her hips to brush hardness against throbbing center, sending little flickers of flames down her spine. Killian tossed his head back, his neck strained as he groaned towards the ceiling, his fingers digging into her as she slid up and down again, just feeling him against her, riding him in a completely different way. 

 

“Emma-” he tried again through disoriented desire. Tried to pull her back but she was too far gone with need, sliding up and down again against him, releasing him to grab his face, pull his mouth into hers again. 

 

“Please,” she gasped, the broken whispered plea was at odds with the delirious movements of her body. A repeated litany again his lips, a prayer against his neck as she shifted them again, reaching down to pull him where she was clenching and aching, needing to feel him everywhere, without, within, she didn't care as long as she could feel him. 

 

He answered her prayers with whispered “Okay’s”, nodded against her neck as he  _ whined _ with torturous pleasure, “Whatever you need” moaned frantically against her temple as she sank down, replacing fire with fullness, heat with hard. A hissed groaning “Fuck.” rasped out as she bucked against him, his arms tightening around her. 

 

Her mouth ghosted wet open kisses across his face until she found him again, sucking his tongue, licking into his mouth one instant, leaning back to drive down into him in the next. 

 

She whimpered in frustration, the angle all wrong, and pushed him back, letting him fall into soft pillows, his face slack with desire as he stared up at her completely mystified. 

 

Emma closed her eyes, just wanting to feel, angled her hips, leaning back to rock against him in a frenetic slapping rhythm, no build up this time, bearing into his thigh with one hand for leverage, the other scrambling for his, pulling it against her in an unspoken command. He obeyed instantly, matching the thrusts of her hips with the swirls of his fingers, tried to keep tempo with the manic rise and fall. Sputtering incoherent syllables fell from his mouth as he squeezed his eyes closed, tried to match pace against the center of nerve and fiery sensation between them, tried to meet her thrust for furious thrust. Tried to give her what she needed. 

 

But she was mindless and manic, lungs burning, chasing down release with focused intensity, made of only heat and quaking pulsing ripples of rapture. Killian tensed beneath her, hand stilling as he came fast with a gritted teeth howl, tremoring under her. She continued to grind down, bucking into him, nothing but heedless fervor. He was back in a blink, sensing her desperation, the missing piece of her puzzle, his fingers increasing their dexterous eddies, honed from days of practice, timing them with the jerks and snaps of her hips until everything tightened and focused, burst brilliant and blooming, white hot bliss snapping down her spine with almost painful intensity, drowning her, a cry tearing from her mouth against her will.

 

Killian drew back slowly, soothed jerks and spasms with a hand caressing her thigh, whispered comforting nonsense words into the air between them. Emma sagged down, laying across him, pressing head to heart, feeling his lips against her crown, sweat sliding against skin and hair as she gasped and clawed for breath. She could feel him tighten his arms around her, tilt his chin down to press a kiss to her hair again. 

 

His heart was thudding chaos against her cheek, his breath rapidly calming pants. Emma closed her eyes, pressed her face deeper into his chest, wanting to hear life in his lungs, proof of vitality in his ribs, feel him warm and solid against her. 

 

She wanted to apologize, to tell him she was sorry, but he was already whispering thanks you’s into her hair, soothing words of comforting gratitude lifting fine strands pulled free with his breath.

 

Emma closed her eyes, listened to his slowing heart, the evening out of his breathing. He rubbed circles onto her back with his hand, gentle strokes of cool metal against her waist with his hook, little tingles of pleasure following each stroke, quiet and steady and  _ here.  _ She burrowed into him, wanting to get as close as she could, wanting to ignore the hissing triumphant laugh of the darkness at the back of her mind. 

 

Quiet and steady and here.

 

______

 

He approached the ship like one would a wounded dog. Cautious and steady, hesitant sideways steps sliding in the sand, the lantern held high and defensive despite the burn of mid day sun. It was a truly stupid thing, there was nothing aboard the vessel except rats and scuttling crabs now, the only thing to fear the ghosts of the past. He had no reason to be afraid, but his heart pounded just the same, his breath barely able to squeeze past the heavy weight in his chest as he peered into the gaping hole at the side.

 

It smelled musty and foul, rotting food and sea life hanging heavy in the air, thick and noxious. He very much hoped that's all it was, decaying food stores and dead fish left behind by the tide, instead of men trapped below, or forgotten in the chaos. He had thought the full complement was in the dungeon, but he had been wrong about Carlsdale, who was to say that he hadn't met his demise on this abandoned skeleton of a ship, or that there wasn't someone else unaccounted for who may still be on board. 

 

Hook held the lantern aloft and peered into the body of the vessel, black and ominous even in daylight. He took in deep steadying breaths through his mouth, almost able to taste the stench, and as the trepidation and terror curled around his heart he briefly considered going back, waiting for Emma and her soft blue orb.

 

He hadn't mentioned his plans to her though, had only nodded absently when she reminded him once more he could learn whatever he wished, do whatever he wished, before she disappeared into the dark after tender morning kisses and slow indulgent explorations. She had been careful to be gentle as of late, days of apologies for losing control, spoken only in soft caresses and lazy rocking rhythms, kisses pressed to scratched skin and bruised flesh. 

 

He told her it was okay, more than okay, that she had done nothing wrong as best he could. Flowers gathered from the conservatory. Bowing impish requests to dance as sweat from their exercises dried on their brows, Emma’s humming melody keeping the time for both. And stories he’d read or heard whispered into the dark before he fell asleep, fingers in her hair. 

  
  


But he hadn't settled on her request to occupy himself yet. Her massive libraries had volumes on nearly every subject, book after book about every conceivable thing. Some made him blush and flush, erotic and intimidating in equal measure, others were intriguing but only superficially. An overwhelming amount of choice. He pulled ones that looked interesting, stacking them in neat little piles on a large mahogany desk he’d claimed for his own at her insistence, flipping through them and picturing himself in the roles they defined but never quite hitting on one that stirred something inside him. Not like the sword or Emma herself had done, all of them lacking the all encompassing need to  _ know _ .

 

“Is there something you always wanted to learn?” She’d asked. “I dunno, a childhood dream unfulfilled?”

 

He had wanted to tell her this was it.  _ She  _ was it. But he had just shrugged and smiled sheepishly, tugged at the back of his hair.

 

He was not a learned man by any means but he was not entirely uneducated. His father had seen to it that his sons could read and write and do basic sums. The gesture more practical than based in parental affection. Far more confidence tricks and games could be used to swindle and steal if one had a measure of education, and for a time he fancied his sons could one day learn the trade. Liam had kept it up when they were left alone, dark nights on the ship by the light of guttering candles, tracing letters and numbers in wood with chalky rocks, reading pilfered books and letters. 

 

Nuru had nurtured a love of stories in his months on the ship, telling fantastical tales of his travels, and reading to him from books with beautiful enchanting script, teaching him the lovely foreign words. After that, what coin he had was mostly spent on stories if he could afford them, reading pilfered leather bound treasures before they were sold on shore when they came across them. But books were hard to come by, even harder to get permission to read, especially on specific topics, and now gifted with entire libraries worth he found he couldn't decide where to start. 

 

So he spent his days instead cleaning the salvaged blade until it shone like new metal, the leather hilt shined with wax, the blade sharpened on rough ceramic till it slid through paper in razor sharp rasps. He was wonderfully proud of the thing, walking into the study for their lessons days later, chest held high, clutching it in his hand. Emma hadn't allowed them to practice with it yet, the wooden swords were much safer for him, but she had smiled at him proudly and declared it wasn't even recognizable as the same blade, stroking the metal and running her fingers over the leather until his grin threatened to split his face, his heart shining. 

 

He practiced the drills they went over by himself when she was gone, all over the castle, attacks in the conservatory, parries in the kitchen, waltzes in the study with imaginary partners he pretended had shimmering silver hair and leaf green eyes. He was making progress, slowly but surely finding his footing, the movements easier to execute, more automatic with repetition. 

 

Emma had even declared they could move to real blades now if he wanted, and he could almost hear the ringing metal in his ears. Which meant he needed a proper home for his weapon, and while Emma would gladly conjure one to his exact preference, something in him wanted him to see the thing through on his own. 

 

There was also something else, brilliant plated gold and glittering with promise, coveted by a young man who loved the stars, out of reach to a lowly untrustworthy deckhand with seemingly dull wits and one hand. His for the taking if he wished it now, no one there to stop him.

 

Which meant raiding the ship. Which meant stepping aboard it into the dark. Hook took a deep breath. 

 

“Lead with the left,” he murmured dryly to himself. And ducked, stepping into it. 

 

Once inside it was easier, the anticipation worse than the result, but anxiety still fell heavy between his shoulders, his skin still crawled with discomfort as he weaved through fallen furniture, braced himself against the tilt of the ship.

 

Ghostly echoes of memory whispered in his brain as he made his way to the bow, the Captain’s cabin his best bet for what he sought. The hard cracks of leather renting the air, his back burning with ghostly pain. Taunts and jeers echoing on swelling wood, captured in overturned chairs.

 

Killian took another breath, and pressed forward.

 

The Captain’s cabin was brighter, almost cheerful, the summer sun casting the walls in homey creams and ecrus even with the chaos of knocked over furniture and debris. Without Blackbeard’s intimidating presence filling the space, barking orders and making jokes at his expense it was easier to breath here, the confined room keeping out most of the odors of the ship, the sun banishing the dark. He set the lantern carefully on a shelf and began to look around.

 

The scabbard was easily obtained, several of them on offer. The rest took a bit of hunting. The room was in chaotic disarray, some of the things he needed had been out and in use when the storm struck, now scattered along the floor. The rest was packed away on shelves and in trunks, experience making the books and references unnecessary. But not for him. 

 

He dumped a chest on the floor, socks and linens and the random effluvia of the man who had formerly owned them spilling out, and filled it with his new treasures, excitement building in his chest. It was that same focused intensity as when he’d come across the sword, a sense of  _ right  _ to it, that had him scrabbling on the floor to find what he needed, digging through trunks and secret spaces, tearing a room that had once been a source of terror and dread to pieces to get everything he knew he’d need.

 

_ This is what pirates do.  _

 

Killian straightened up in sudden realization, his mouth dropping open in awe, his hand stopping its digging perusal of a drawer in the built in shelves along the wall. 

 

Regardless of death or courtesy, possession and law, pirates plundered and took what they wanted, and Killian was  _ taking _ . He had no regard for the man who had lived here. No sympathy or nostalgia for the objects he tossed aside. He was single minded purpose, his treasure not gold or jewels or spices but tools of practicality, the contrivances of a skill that he had longed to know but had never had the means to learn.

 

He blew a stunned breath out of his mouth, scrubbed a hand across his face, and grinned into his palm. His eyes were burning, and he choked, trying not to laugh. He couldn't contain it though, chuckling softly at first, than louder and louder, filling the ghostly ship with mirth, tears streaking unchecked down his cheeks. 

 

“You’ve gone absolutely stark raving, mate,” he thought to himself, using the back of his arm to wipe them away, still chuckling faintly. He pressed thumb and pointer into his eyes to collect himself, biting his lip to calm down.

 

Ten years, he thought.  _ Over _ ten years. Beaten and mocked and harassed, maimed and terrorized, and all it had taken, all he needed for him to finally be the pirate they wanted, to take up his sword and ransack and pillage, was to fall in love. 

 

_____

 

The dreamcatcher taunted her in clicking shells and rustling feathers, mocking her from its place hanging among the rest. Everyday she came into her workroom, took it down, stared at it, the fibers burning her fingertips in anticipation, fully intent on taking it to Killian. And everyday she put it back, resumed her work on the fading specters of men in her cells, collected their debts to feed the darkness, danced and sparred with him in the afternoons to humming songs, and gave and took in equal measure bliss soaked pleasure from him in the evenings. Every day exactly the same, the month drawing on, marked by sweet kisses and enveloping guilt.

 

He told her stories every night, voice whispering and happily sated, of grand adventures, epic heroes and undying love. He stammered less when he spoke of things he knew well, finding the words even more easily when they were someone else's. He murmured memories into the dark about places he'd been, sights he’d seen and captured, treasured forever in vivid sweeping details, fingers tangled in her hair.

 

And she couldn't take it down. Was it what the darkness wanted or what she wanted? She could never answer the question, and so it remained in the rafters. Until today. 

 

Today she ignored the hissing and spitting greed of the voices in her head, pushed aside the clawing cold, and took her memories in her hands to give them to a man who deserved them. There was no strike of lightning, no sudden dawning realization, no grand epiphany. She was just tired of hiding. Had grown weary from fear, and time only made everything worse. The nature of entropy. Bodies aged and weathered and sins and guilt grew beyond salvage. 

 

Said deserving man startled in surprise when she entered the study she had given him, books toppling off one of the small stacks surrounding him in a tiny avalanche. He stared at them for a moment like they’d betrayed him, then cast surprised eyes back up to her. Guilt coiled in her stomach, so shocking was her appearance to him at midday he could barely speak. She had left him alone for so many hours, every day, and for what? 

 

Her hands clenched around the circle, wringing them against the threads. 

 

“What are you doing?” She asked, trying to sound cheerful.

 

“Oh! I'm- uh,” he gestured sheepishly towards the books. “Learning? Well, attempting to.” He scratched at the back of his head.

 

Emma blinked in surprise. He hadn’t mentioned finding anything that interested him, hadn't spoken of it in their talks before he fell asleep each night, Emma staying to watch over him. It hurt a little, that he’d kept it from her, as ironic as that was, and even more that he was red faced and stammering about it now.

 

“Learning what?” He blinked at the chill in her voice, and gestured to the stack.

 

“Well, I thought I’d try my hand at… navigation, I always found it fascinating, but it was er-” he frowned, teeth rubbing against his lip. “I'm afraid it was a bit too complex to just...dive right in. I reckoned if  _ Jasper _ could handle it anyone could.”

 

The flash of hurt turned to alarm, stinging sudden terror freezing her blood. One didn't need to  _ navigate _ her small island haven. 

 

“Are you-” Emma hesitated, trying to grab back the cheer. “Planning a trip?” Her voice had settled on something decidedly more manic. Killian looked over at her.

 

“Well one day perhaps,” he said honestly, voice soft . “There’s a lot of realm to explore. I thought I could-” He glanced over her form, an odd intensity in his face before he broke off the thought and rubbed the back of his head. “But I didn't quite realize that it was so much bloody…” he frowned again. “Arithmetic.” He glanced to the window, checking the sun. “You’re early today?” 

 

“I wanted to see you,” her hands gripped tight around the dreamcatcher. He smiled at her words, and glanced at it.

 

“Is that-?” He reached out but Emma pulled back a fraction. 

 

“One of my ‘circle things’,” she confirmed, her heart pounding. She ran her eyes over the books and papers on the desk, trying to see an end game in contrastingly neat chaos, finding none. Where did he want to go? And when? She knew he would leave eventually, everyone did, in one way or another, but that he was trying to do so this  _ quickly _ made it hard to breathe air into her lungs. 

 

“It's very pretty,” he offered looking at it curiously. “It reminds me of you.”

 

At any other time, on any other person, it might have been a flirtation, dark bedroom eyes and smirking lips. For Killian, in that moment, it was two separate facts, stated with honest plainness. He was getting better at it, little moments of heat in things he said, but he was too cautious, too embarrassed, his face flaming whenever he tried, his own surprise at himself undermining the effect. That he didn't blush or stutter now told her everything of his intent. 

 

“Why navigation?” She blurted. She needed to know. The darkness teased the edges of her mind, shut away for now but sensing weakness, cracks in her armor. She tried to focus on his eyes, steady and bright blue, ignored the hints of shadow in her periphery. 

 

He flushed, reaching over to fidget with something absentmindedly on the desk, smiling down at it. He picked it up, shining gold and glass in the light from the windows. Emma stepped closer, urging him to sit, to tell her the tale. She laid the dreamcatcher on the edge of the desk as she crossed to the front, pushing aside the thought that she was deflecting again. She wasn't. She was going to do this. It was just, this was more important right now. Panic has settled into her throat, the thought of him leaving sending cold liquid fear down her back. 

 

Killian collapsed back into the chair, the only one in the room. It's why she had chosen this study for him, a place of his own, a quiet contemplative space to do whatever he wished, with large arching windows overlooking the sea, a tiny bottled ship on the mantle, a telescope pointed towards the sky. This room seemed made for him despite its existence long before he was born, and now it was his as long as he wished to have it.

 

She perched on the edge of the desk, glancing down at the maps and scribbles in a little book, more volumes open to tables and figures. She fingered a silver stylus, a stainless compass, the crisp edge of a ruler absently.

 

Killian leaned forward, smoothing down the paper, moving aside the tools with his hook so she could sit more fully on the top, legs dangling in front of him. She had chosen another dress today, her calves peeking out from long revealing slits, a calculated move, just as she had worn her hair down, kept her feet bare. Her belly clenched as he traced them with his eyes, traveling up exposed skin to where the fabric crossed. His hand lingered as he drew it back, tracing soft silk.

 

“So,” she said smiling, arching one eyebrow at his obvious distraction. “Navigation.”  

 

He cleared his throat as his cheeks went red, leaning back to pick up the object in his lap. A sextant, she recognized.

 

“I mostly just wanted this,” he confessed, fingers stroking across stylized rivets, over the raised Pegasus on the metal. “It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Well, at the time.” Emma’s heart leapt as he cleared his throat again, not looking at her. 

 

“There's...not a lot of beauty on a pirate ship. Not in the day to day,” he ran his thumb over the horse's wings. “And I just thought it was lovely.” 

 

“It is,” Emma admitted softly. Even if it was the means by which he left her, the sextant  _ was _ lovely, smooth curving lines and brilliant gold metal, she could imagine him on the deck, coveting such a whimsical thing, wanting it for his own.

 

“And I thought it was like magic,” he spoke into his lap, embarrassed by his foolish notions, the inner musings of a man trying to cope. “To look at the stars and find your way. To know  _ precisely  _ where you were in the world at any moment.”

 

He cast a derisive glance over to the scribbled notes and papers.

 

“Apparently less magic, more mathematics,” he frowned. “Which I find myself...ill equipped for.”  

 

A selfish flare of hope lashed across the back of her neck. It was wrong, despicable even, but Emma could no more help her reaction than any other she had to him. She didn't want him to leave, and if ignorance was a barrier to that eventuality she would welcome it. 

 

“I'm sorry,” she said, trying to truly feel the platitude as she spoke it. She  _ was _ sorry, for him, for the reality he found himself faced with. That the life he’d led continued to throw obstacles into his path. Ones he couldn't have anticipated ever being an issue. Neglect standing in the way of ambition. 

 

He smiled at her, which only made it worse, miserable self reproach washing over her. 

 

“No need to be,” he let the sextant drop into his lap again, running a hand through his hair. “Blackbeard had books I can start with, work up to it, and there were more in the libraries. I fear I only know the most basic sums so it will be a long slog,” he leaned forward shifting uncomfortably. “It was my own arrogance that made think I could just, I don't know, work it out immediately.” 

 

Emma laughed.

 

“I don't think arrogance is a word I would use to describe you,” she smiled at him fondly. “Hopeful maybe.” She amended.

 

“Aye,” he had that look again, all smoldering intensity. “Naive morelike.” 

 

“So you’re still…” Emma hesitated. “Going to keep trying?”

 

He nodded.

 

“It's fascinating,” he admitted. “The more I read the more I-” he flushed, looking down again. “I didn't realize  _ how _ beautiful it truly was. It’s more than a bit of shiny metal or mythological creatures.” 

 

Emma tilted her head, looking at him curiously, pushing down the disquieting anxiety. This is what he wanted, she could tell by the way he picked at his trousers, the longing disappointment on his face as he gave voice to the realization that he wasn't ready, the undercurrent of yearning in his voice as he spoke.

 

“Beautiful?” She leaned forward.

 

“Aye,” it was almost a whisper. 

 

“How so?” A softly spoken command, a urging to share with her, help her understand. Perhaps if she could know what called to him, what incited his curiosity in this particular thing,  she wouldn't  _ hate _ the idea so very much. 

 

Killian hesitated, trying to put what he wanted to say together in his head. Her heart warmed watching him think, the care with which he chose the words. It would never get tiring watching him fight through habitual silence to find hidden poetry.

 

“It's-,” he took in a breath. “-using all the wonders of the heavens to guide your way. The moon, the sun, the stars. Constellations formed by the Gods,” he closed his eyes. “To look up at the sky, and  _ know _ that at any given moment in time, any two people, anywhere in the realm, if they could see those same things could observe the exact same angle. That you can go  _ anywhere  _ and all you need is the sky.”

 

Emma felt her eyes burn, a knot forming in her throat. She tried to swallow around it, fighting the urge to lean down, press her lips to his, swallow his words to take them inside and keep them forever. 

 

Killian quirked his lips, the tips of his ears reddening. 

 

“And a truly ridiculous number of calculations.” 

 

Emma laughed shakily, tears in the sound. 

 

_ Please don't go  _ threaded in her smile.

 

He shifted uncomfortably. 

 

“If you need help,” Emma said finally. “I'm not really good with that sort of stuff, but I'll give you whatever you need, Killian,” and she would. Whatever he desired he would have. Even if it meant he left this place never to return. She wouldn't keep him trapped here for her sake. Not when he spoke with so much passion and sincerity. She couldn't do that to him.

 

“Thank you,” his smile was glorious, eyes crinkling at the corners, his gratitude pinging against her ribs. “I found a lot to start with.” He motioned absently to the array of books and flotsam on the table.

 

“I see that,” she turned slightly, shifting her hips to look at them. There was more than navigation here, books on horticulture and astronomy, storybooks and school primers. She ran her finger along the spines. “I'm glad you found something,” she said sincerely. 

 

“I'm glad I had a reason to,” he whispered. Emma swallowed again, too much feeling in too short a time, she felt dizzy and delirious with it. From cold guilt to warm affection, fear and loss, to pride and something more, something she dare not give a name to. Something that clenched around her heart as he spoke of the heavens, that surged in her blood when he captured locks of her hair between his fingers, ran down her spine when he pressed warm lips to her temple, or his thumb into her cheek, softly stroking. Emma closed her eyes, shifting on the desk, wanting to run, her legs itching with the need to flee, escape. 

 

“I'll put them back,” he was saying, unaware of her inner turmoil, scooting forward to place the sextant back on the edge of the desk. “Did you want to to start our lesson early?” He asked curiously, no doubt still confused as to why she was there when normally she would be below, toiling in the dark, hiding from the light of the day. 

 

Emma thought of the dreamcatcher, of her reason for coming here, and shook her head.

 

“No, I just wanted to see you,” she repeated, and gave a little shrug, still itching to go, back down to the black where she belonged. She continued to look through the books instead, trying to peer inside his mind, get an idea of his thoughts. He was smiling happily at her words in the chair, leaning towards her, looking like he wanted to pull her into his lap, his arms rising a fraction, but as always, respectfully hesitating. 

 

“What’s this one?” Her eyes caught a familiar red tome, buried towards the bottom of the stack, and her confirming glance at his face, suddenly beet red and stammering gave evidence to her suspicion. She grinned, all thoughts of dreamcatchers and terrifying futures forgotten as his mouth worked, just the distraction she needed to quiet the riot of her emotions before she spun out of control. She just needed more  _ time _ . 

 

“It's nothing, I just-I,” he licked his lips as she carefully raised the stack, sliding it out. “It's not what it appears.” He said quickly. 

 

“Well that's disappointing,” she murmured, biting her lip. “Because it  _ appears  _ like you were doing some very  _ interesting  _ research.” 

 

She opened the book, flicking through the pages, lurid painted images of bodies entwined on every other page, graphic descriptions accompanying them. It was a book she knew well. She peeked up at him mischievously, lust suffusing in her belly as he shifted, the familiar ache of want pushing aside all anxiety.

 

This was better, more familiar, less frightening than what lay on the other end of the desk. The dark memories that awaited them. She just wanted one moment more. She cast the musings aside again and straightened, flipping the pages with intent as he fidgeted in abject mortification at being caught out.

 

Watching him struggle to breathe, to explain himself, was just as enchanting as before, now for an entirely different reason. 

 

“I wasn’t doing  _ that _ -” he blew out a breath. “I was just trying-”

 

“Oh? Which one did you want to try?”  she held up the book, a picture of a man and woman contorted obscenely, a mix of limbs and faces blown with desire. Almost as delightful as the one in her head of him doing exactly  _ that,  _ his hand working himself to peak, mouth slack as he devoured lurid images painted on paper with hot hungry eyes. 

 

“This one?” She tried not to laugh, swinging her legs in the air in glee as he somehow grew even redder, casting his eyes away and back again. 

 

“You said it didn't have to be academic subjects,” he croaked. “And I found that..in the library, and I wanted-” he licked his lips. 

 

“What?” Her voice was a dark rasp of sex and anticipation, wanting to hear him tell her what he desired, what images held a particular appeal for  _ him _ specifically. Wanting to  _ know. _

 

_ “ _ What did you want, Killian?” She leaned forward, opening her legs so the slit of her dress pulled to the side, revealing more of her legs and thighs for his perusal.

 

“To learn how to... please you,” he burst out, snapping his mouth closed. Emma felt an electric surge straight to her core at the declaration. She held out the book.

 

“Show me,” she said, another gentle command. He hesitated a moment, taking it in his hand and swallowing. 

 

“I don't think-” he started but Emma raised an eyebrow. 

 

“I'm just curious,” she said softly. “Show me.” 

 

He let out a breath of embarrassment, holding it to his lap to flick through the pages until he the found the one he wanted, thrusting it out and looking off to the side, not able to watch her face. 

 

Emma took it from him and smiled wickedly at the image, a woman splayed across an ornate chaise, opulent fabrics and pillows surrounding her as she moaned into the sky, a man situated between splayed legs.

 

“Oh,” she whispered. “We  _ are _ ambitious,” she murmured. 

 

“I just thought-” his teeth were clenched, still not looking at her. “I could learn to do the same for you that you did-on the beach.”

 

“And did you? Learn?” She set the book carefully aside, sliding closer on the desk till her toes brushed the lacquered stone of the floor. 

 

“I-I read it,” stammered out. “But I don't think-”

 

“Exactly,” Emma interrupted. “Don't think.” She waved a hand and laughed as he startled, jerking his head back to her as her dress was whisked away by shimmering, tinkling magic, naked on the desk. 

 

She stretched her leg out, one delicate foot wrapping around the arm of the chair, hooking it to drag him closer with unnatural strength. He swallowed as he slid across the floor.

 

“Emma, I can’t,” he was all nervous pants and trepidation. 

 

“Won’t know until you try,” she offered gently. “A new lesson. Just remember, watch my face, listen, pay attention to my movements,” she whispered. “You don't have to, we’ll do whatever you want.” She reminded him softly. 

 

Killian closed his eyes, struggling. 

 

“I want-” he breathed out. Emma’s nerves sparked as he didn't continue, just palmed the foot resting on the arm of the chair next to him, his hand rough against the arch. He pressed a kiss to her ankle, small and delicate, and a shudder wracked through her at just that small brush of lips. 

 

He leaned closer, another kiss, open mouth against the swell of her calf, his hand tracing the curve. Emma almost couldn't breathe as he brushed his mouth reverently across her skin, so soft and light it set her aflame with need. He leaned forward further, shifting the chair to press another wet kiss against the tender flesh of her thigh, so close she could feel the fan of harsh breath against her. She clenched, her toes curling against the wood of the chair. 

 

The next kiss he placed was just as delicate, butterfly wings against her center, making her twitch and slide towards him across the wood and paper, heat licking up her spine in expectation, hands braced back against the desk. His dark hair contrasting with the porcelain of her skin made her  _ want _ as he pressed another kiss to the juncture of one thigh, than turned to do the same to other, chaotic wisps tickling against her. 

 

She watched, staring down the line of her body as his eyes flickered up to her own, uncertain, and in truth a bit scared, and she bit her lip nodding quickly in encouragement. His eyes locked with hers as he kissed her again, firmer, a thrum of need arching up against his lips, blue turning black.

 

He edged in with fractional movements, the metal of his hook cool against her leg, splaying her wider. Building up his courage, breathing her in deep, his eyes fluttering closed. Emma swallowed, feet sliding against parchment with sudden keyed up energy. 

 

He leaned in again, his nose nudging, the beard of his chin brushing against sensitive skin as he tilted up and pressed the tip of warm wet tongue against her center. She sucked in a breath of air, tilting to look up at the ceiling as he dipped and tasted, gentle exploratory strokes that made her clench and strain, needing more, needing friction and frantic fire. But she knew to be patient, to enjoy the indulgence of his careful ministrations. Purposeful skilled frenzy was one thing, but there was something amazing about a slow education, little experiments of a mouth wrapping around her swollen center, gentle sucking probing pressure that had sharp pleasure throbbing into smooth wet skin, little featherlight flicks of tongue where she was burning. 

 

Cool fingers parted her with gentle curiosity, that act more familiar to him by this point, he’d become very skilled with his hand indeed over the past few weeks, a natural ability fusing with determination that had left her a boneless heaving mess every time. This time promised to be no different. He flicked his eyes up to her again, watching her carefully as he stroked his tongue long and even along her. Her breath choked, and when it did he stopped, resumed slower, shorter strokes of wet rasping sensation where her breathing gave her away. 

 

Emma’s leg came up of it’s own accord, snaking over his shoulder, heel to spine to draw him closer, falling back on elbows, trying not to knock the stack of books adjar, dismayed that the map beneath her might not survive this lesson. She would make him another, a million if he just kept doing  _ that.  _ Her hands curled to her chest, brushing along the tips of her breasts.

 

He dipped his tongue lower, tasting her with light gossamer caresses where she clenched, moaning against her with soft vibrations into her skin that had her tightening as he caught the taste of her in his mouth. She tilted down, needing him higher again. He marked the movement immediately, beard scraping against tense thighs, closing his mouth over tumescent skin, drawing it into his mouth, the light pressure of teeth capturing her as he flicked against it. Emma cried out, sharp glances of pleasure followed each stroke, almost too much against the bundle of nerves, and moaned long and low as he moved his hand, pressing inside her with upturned fingers. 

 

She nodded frantically, feeling his eyes on her but unable to look down at him, neck straining, pressing her legs together around him, her heel digging further into his back. 

 

She could  _ feel  _ as he became more confident, as timid hesitance gave way in the face of her body’s automatic reflexive encouragement in twitches and jerks and keening cries that caught in her throat, made her chest heave. She could  _ feel  _ his enjoyment, the low indulgent moans against her, his frenzied movement as he took and took and took. 

 

His fingers moved in practiced dragging strokes within her, honed from weeks of dedicated mastery, curled and arched perfectly, and he timed each with the swirls and pulls of his tongue against her. She could almost hear the beats of a familiar waltz in each drag and press of that tongue, blood rushing in her ears, a rapidly building tempo, punctuated with sucking pressure and vibrating groans as he  _ feasted _ and gave completely into instinct, following pants and gasps and sharp cries in her throat, tremoring jumping legs against his head and along his shoulders, acknowledging each with corresponding, delicious action. 

 

Emma tried to keep upright, her body jerking to follow the rising rhythm, unintelligible curses falling from her lips, her arms widening to support her, sending the stack of books to the floor with a barely registered crash. 

 

She’d had no idea she had needed this _so_ _much_ , had wanted to feel that fascinating mouth on her since the first, and now as he opened his jaw wide, licked long and wet and dirty, she was quite sure she would ever get enough. She had mused that ruin lay in that mouth once and no declaration had ever been steeped in as much prophecy as he utterly destroyed her. He built her up with natural ease, he knew her reactions like he knew the stars in the sky by now, desire and tension coiling under each glide and flick, winding tighter with each drag of his fingers. 

 

Sweat beaded along her temples, her legs pressing closer, needing  _ more, _ everything sharpening and focusing to only wet tongue on heat and filthy moans against her flesh, clenching around rapidly moving fingers, hitting little notes of pleasure with each pass. He moaned again, tasting her over and over, increasing the pace to match her breaths.

 

Release crashed against her suddenly, a stilted cry tumbling from her mouth as she bucked against his hand, felt his tongue increase its movements with wave after wave of all encompassing electric fire, slowing as she calmed, pulling back to lap in long strokes that had her twitching from _too_ _much._ Her hand reached down to still him, his hair soft and thick under her fingers, and she panted and gasped against hard wood, flushed pink, unable to do much more with rubbery limbs and buzzing nerves. 

 

Killian righted himself hesitantly, drew his sleeve across wet beard and mouth, and bit his lip against a pleased, blushing smile. An altogether different warmth took over, that unnameable feeling overwhelming her as she watched him be  _ proud _ of himself, deservedly so. She smiled as best she could, too lazy and lax to do much more. 

 

“I think we ruined your map,” she breathed out, letting him help her to sitting, her limbs still weak. He flushed deeper, tugged at his ear.

 

“I have more,” he murmured, allowing her to lean down to press a happy kiss to his mouth, tasting herself on his lips. 

 

She leaned forward further, unable to keep upright anymore, and let herself slide off the desk to tumble into his lap, her legs draping over the sides of the chair as she nuzzled into him, felt his hardness beneath her, his arms coming around to pull her close.

 

“Do you want me to?” She glanced down his chest, shifting slightly against him. His eyes fluttered but surprisingly he shook his head.

 

“I'm happy like this,” he whispered, her heart swelling. He amended with a raised eyebrow, “Later perhaps though.” Emma laughed, nuzzling closer. 

 

“I'm so glad you read that book,” she breathed out into his neck, and she could feel the shake of laughter in his chest under her. He pressed a kiss to her crown.

 

“Aye, love, me as well.” 

 

Her heart jolted at the casual unconscious endearment, he had never said such before, and she tried to keep her breathing neutral in the face of it, pressing closer, breathing him in and closing her eyes.  

 

____

  
  


Killian was quite certain this was the happiest he had ever been in his entire miserable life. He knew not what he had done for the Gods for them to give him such a gift, but a gift it was and one he treasured beyond anything. 

 

Emma happily sated, breathing softly against his chest, skin bare in his arms, in a room she had given him, objects plundered from a man he’d hated giving him purpose and direction on a desk that was his own,  _ proud  _ of something he had done, something he had done for the woman he now knew he loved. He pressed his hand to her hair, fingers rubbing against scalp, clutched her closer, and painted the picture into his memory, wanting to keep these moments in his heart forever. 

 

Against him Emma stirred, lifting her head, and like a candle flickering out the elation ebbed. 

 

“What’s the matter?” He stilled his hand, letting it fall to her back. 

 

“I-” she frowned harder, and Killian sat up. 

 

“Emma?” Panic burst in his stomach immediately, a reflexive response, and he tried to swallow it down, focus on her. 

 

“No. No. It's okay,” she said quickly, his face apparently giving more away than he’d thought. Her palm went automatically to his cheek, and he pressed against it instantly, not feeling particularly soothed, but it helped a bit. He furrowed his brows in concern, lifting up to look at her more fully. 

 

“Hold on,” she said sheepishly and stood, waving her hand so she was back in the gray silk dress again. “I should probably be...clothed... for this.” 

 

He sucked in a breath, his brain automatically filling in the blanks with the definition of  _ this.  _ She had come to him in the middle of the day, looking troubled, had distracted herself with sex, which he had learned early on was her way when she was troubled or uncomfortable, and now she was standing across from him looking as if she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. He swallowed, throat right. 

 

“I'm sorry if I-” he started. 

 

Emma shook her head quickly again. 

 

“No! Killian. I promise it's nothing you did,” she moved to the desk, picking up the black dreamcatcher she had been clutching before. “You were _amazing.”_ She insisted firmly. “It’s just bad timing on my part, or I shouldn’t have initiated that first or something.” She clutched the circle and looked down at her feet. “I just, I _needed_ _you_ for a moment before I-” she blew out a breath. “I came to give you this.” 

 

She thrust the object at him unceremoniously and he took it automatically, lightening a bit at  _ needed you  _ but still incredibly worried and confused.

 

“What is it exactly?” It was warm in his hands, seeming to thrum and vibrate against him, or perhaps he just imagined it did. 

 

“A gift,” she said, though she did not look at all pleased to be giving it to him. Killian tried to smile. “It’s called a dreamcatcher.” 

 

“Thank you, Emma.” He went to stand. “I can hang it in here perhaps?”

 

“No,” Emma shook her head. “The gift is what's inside of it.”

 

Killian looked down at an open network of winding twine, even more baffled. 

 

“It's my-” she swallowed. “It's my memories. That's what these are for.” She reached out to lightly finger the edge of the circle. His grip tightened.

 

“Memories?” He breathed out. 

 

“Yes. I know I haven't been...forthcoming exactly, it's not...easy for me.” 

 

Killian nodded.

 

“I know. And you don't have to do this,” he went to hand it back to her. “I told you, whenever you’re ready.” 

 

“I'm ready,” she said firmly. Killian raised an eyebrow at her. She was practically shaking in fear, more nervous than he had ever seen her, absolutely terrified of whatever the strange object contained. “You called me love.” She accused.

 

Killian paled, the blood rushing from his face.

 

“I didn't- it's just a-” he stammered out, his heart plummeting. He couldn't bring himself to lie, to tell her he didn't mean it, it was just a turn of phrase, but the way she was looking at him made him wish he could. “I'm sorry.” He finished finally.

 

“Stop apologizing!” He flinched as she practically shouted, her voice that cold hard stone again, echoing in the room. He almost opened his mouth to apologize again, of all the bloody things, but thankfully stilled the words in time. 

 

“Ugh,” Emma turned, pacing away. “I'm doing this all wrong. Listen to me. The  _ only _ one who should be apologizing is  _ me.”  _  He opened his mouth to argue but her face alone told him that was a truly terrible idea. 

 

“Just. Let me start over, ” Emma bounced in place for a moment, the action making him smile despite the bizarre and worrying conversation, trying to gather herself.

 

“All of my memories are bad,” she said finally and then quickly amended. “Tainted, I guess is a better word. The darkness it...does that. Takes anything good and twists it, turns it into something ugly.” She sighed, rubbing her arms for a moment, clutching at her elbows, and motioned for him to sit again. He did, reluctantly, the dreamcatcher still clutched in his hand.

 

Emma kneeled at his feet and before he could protest, offer her the chair or a more suitable location, she had curled against his legs, laying her head on his lap. He set the dreamcatcher carefully aside, pressing his hand into her hair, allowing her to speak her peace.

 

“It's hard for me to talk about them, it…  _ hurts, _ and sometimes  _ it _ won't let me,” he had a good idea of what  _ it _ was, even if she had never explicitly told him. The dark specter that followed her everywhere, eyes flickering to the side, listening to halves of conversations he could never hear. 

 

It was bloody unsettling, truly, but it was also just part of who she was, since the first,  even if he couldn't  _ understand _ it at all, didn't know what insidious hold it had over her. He figured it  _ was _ a curse, or a possession, and it was odd indeed to not find that thought more alarming, but he had learned long ago to take things as they were. Until very recently nothing had ever gotten any better. He had seen far worse in men who had no such excuse, no reason for evil deeds like being The Dark One, whatever that might mean.

 

And with him she was always just  _ Emma _ , kind and patient and gentle, only once when they were alone did he feel she had  _ truly _ let him see the hold it had over her, scratching nails and unchecked passion, intense all encompassing need. It had been a bit disconcerting at the time, a little frightening even, but he couldn't honestly say he hadn't  _ enjoyed _ it. That probably should have been a bit more alarming as well, he had never examined it any closer. 

 

“So, I can  _ show _ you,” she said finally. “You can see them all. If you want. But it'll be... scary,” she said softly. “And you’ll be alone. It's like going into another time or place, you’re there but you can’t  _ do  _ anything about what's happening.” She let out a shuddering breath against his leg, one that spoke of experience and hurt watching others.

 

“You don't have to do this,” he whispered. 

 

“I know. I want to, I  _ need _ to,” she looked up at him, and he was startled to find her eyes filled with unshed tears. He ran his hand down to her face, pressing his palm against her cheek like she had done so many times for him. “I have taken so  _ much  _ from you I need to  _ give _ you this.” 

 

“That's not how this has to work,” he insisted, something twisting in his stomach. “It's not debts and payments owed with us.” He knew he sounded a little desperate, his fingers pressing into her jaw, but he had to make her  _ understand _ . She had given him more than anyone ever had, there wasn't some invisible ledger between them, all he wanted was  _ her _ in whatever form that might be.

 

“Please. Killian.” she whispered simply. 

 

His heart clenched. He could deny her nothing. Not ever. He would go to end of the world for her if asked. He swallowed and nodded.

 

“Alright, I accept,” he reluctantly picked up the circle. “What am I to do?” 

 

“Memories are…” she frowned, trying to think of how to continue. “Different, from person to person. Unreliable.” Her eyes flickered up to his, looking at him with some undefined emotion. “Some people-” she swallowed. “Remember things in vivid detail. Just as it happened, honest, and true. Other people... will make things seem better than they really were. Or worse.” She took in a breath. “I took these after...after I became the Dark One so they’ll be...different.” 

 

“Different how?” 

 

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I never looked. I couldn't trust it. So I have others to...fill in the gaps.” 

 

“That's what all the ones in your work room are for,” he nodded suddenly understanding. 

 

She looked uncomfortable, glancing away. 

 

“Exactly. That way I can see the good things too, closer to what  _ actually  _ happened. They belonged to my family, to my friends. The few I had. And sometimes to people who hurt me, or people I hurt.” She looked back at him again, a tear slipping down her cheek. “They're all I have left of them.” 

 

He ducked down, his heart shattering, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, tilting his forehead into hers.

 

“Just promise me you won't-” she let out a shuddering breath, he could feel it ghost across his face, filled with sorrow. “- _ look _ at me differently. I couldn't handle it.” 

 

“Never,” his voice was hard and firm, more conviction in that one word than in any sentence he had ever spoken. “Emma. Never.” 

 

She nodded against him, another tear and then another falling unchecked onto his knees. 

 

“I believe you,” she said shakily. “I  _ trust _ you. Which is why I'm giving them to  _ you _ .” 

 

Killian closed his eyes, his heart felt like it was being crushed beneath a heavy weight, squeezing so tightly his chest physically ached. He wanted to tell her he loved her. Wanted nothing more than for her to  _ know, _ but he had seen her face at the slip of his tongue, an unconscious endearment spoken in a moment of joy, and he couldn't, not when she was crying in his lap, not when she seemed so broken and lost. It would be selfish to say it now when she was vulnerable and  _ trying.  _ This wasn't about how he felt. He would tell her, when the time was right. When she was ready to hear it. He pressed his forehead harder into hers, willing her to hear the words anyway. 

 

“You’ll be alone,” she repeated the warning, her voice choked with tears. “And you can just watch. You can't do anything.” 

 

“If this is what you want, Emma I will,” he leaned back, watching her carefully, and she nodded. He took in a breath. 

 

“Tell me what to do.”

 

_____

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic would not have been possible without Liz (@caprelloidea) she has been with me for every single word, every single flail and anxious moment and I love her more than anyone. 
> 
> And it definitely would not have happened without the amazing and wonderful comments and messages I have received. This fic was so important to me and I'm so happy it was important to some of you too. I love this fandom so much.

____

 

It was like falling into a dream, Killian thought, one moment feeling absolutely ridiculous staring into the center of an odd assortment of twine and shells, the next suddenly standing, feeling hard ground under his feet. He huffed out a breath of amazement and looked around. 

 

The world was dimmer somehow, edging wisps of smoke hung heavy in the air, curled and wrapped around everything like ink. He turned, confused.

 

It was a cottage of some kind, the smell of baking bread and woodsmoke filling his nose. Not a cottage, a bakery he realized, rough wooden shelves held stacking loaves and delicious creations of flour and yeast, small cakes and pies lining the counter. It appeared empty, and he wondered if perhaps there hadn't been some sort of mistake.

 

“Lily! Lily no,” came a hissed whisper from outside. He swiveled, just in time to see shutters swing open, the dark head of a pretty young girl peeking inside.

 

“He’ll be back soon, come on,” the girl said. “Help me up!” She laughed, grabbed  the sill and pulled herself inside with help from behind, necklace dangling, hair falling into her face. She righted herself and turned, reaching out to assist her companion.

 

“We have pies in the castle,” the other girl insisted climbing inside as well, bright blonde curls trailing down her back. Killian’s heart gave a stutter against his ribs.

 

“Emma,” he whispered, though the girls gave no notice of the sound. A thin wisp of inky black twined around her form, haunting her, even then. 

 

It was hard to even see the woman he loved in her face, so rounded with youth, so innocent and soft under a bright red ribbon, dressed in a light blue pinafore, barely out of childhood, but her eyes were the same beautiful green. She was so  _ young.  _ He circled her in awe, barely more than 13 or 14, vibrant and adorable, and looking distinctly worried.

 

“I don't want  _ those _ pies,” the dark haired girl scoffed. “I want these. Now  _ come on.”  _ The girl grabbed her hand, and Emma stumbled after looking apprehensive but hiding a smile. 

 

He watched as the girls leaned in close, breathed in the smell of sugar and berries and looked at each other with mischievous delight. He smiled at the antics of children, completely and utterly charmed by seeing her so small and happy, such a contrast to the troubled woman he knew, this same exuberant mischief just a shadow of the happy impish glee he saw before him now. 

 

“I'm going to see what’s in the back,” Lily whispered. “Maybe the fat codger has some money.” His stomach sank like lead, the small smile wiped from his face.

 

“Lily,  _ no _ ,” Emma said, shaking her head. “We don't need money.” 

 

“Maybe  _ you don't  _ Princess,” Lily rolled her eyes, the title harsh on her lips, her words echoing louder, sounding odd and hollow, as if they filled the entire room, though she spoke barely above a whisper. “But some of us have to buy dinner.” 

 

“You can eat in the castle,” Emma said weakly, looking down and flushing uncomfortably. She wrung the front of her dress in obvious anxiety. “I can sneak you in through the kitchens again.” 

 

“Just keep watch,” the girl sneered and her face twisted oddly, unnaturally, an exaggerated pronouncement of lips and teeth before she disappeared into the back. 

 

Dread coiled within him, following the curling smoke that twined around Emma’s body as she waited, looking sick with worry, lost among the shelves of baked goods. The smoke was growing thicker, the air heavier, an omen if he’d ever seen one.

 

The door banged open with a crash, making both him and the apparition of Emma jump.

 

“I  _ knew _ it,” a pudgy man snarled, advancing on her, slamming it behind him, blocking it with his bulk. “Thought you could rob me again you little wretch?” 

 

Wide eyed, Emma held her hands up in defense, scrambling backwards. 

 

“I didn't! I haven't ever-” she stammered. “I'm sorry, please, I have money! We haven't touched anything!” She reached for a small drawstring pouch at her side. Her hands were shaking as she fumbled with the string, unable to get it open.

 

“Enough to pay for the sow you let loose?” he was thundering anger, his face covered in sweat and dirt, beet red and livid. Killian stepped forward, wanting to protect her, step between them to shield her body with his own. Even  _ his _ heart had picked up speed, he could only imagine how frightened  _ she _ was, he wasn't even really here. It was hard to remind himself of that, remind his body, his racing pulse, everything seemed so real, slightly duller and surreal, but he could smell the man’s sweat, foul and odorous, could hear Emma’s shaking breaths.

 

“N-not on me, but I can get more. Whatever it costs, I can get.” she insisted frantically. “Please, we’re sorry.” 

 

The man lurched towards her and Emma shrieked at the sudden movement, her hands going out reflexively. A brilliant pulse of shimmering white surged from her palms, slamming into him with enough force that he fell backwards into a table and chair, landing unconscious onto the floor. 

 

Emma stood frozen for a second, mouth gaping, her hands dropping slowly as she stared down at him in horror. Killian wanted to pull her into his arms, tell her it was okay. The urge to do so made his arms lift, falling uselessly to his side. She was just a child, but the woman she would become danced in the shadows of her face, the same helpless concern from a darkened kitchen echoed across time, the same look on her face now that would be there centuries later, as his palm lay open and bleeding. 

 

“Emma,” the other girl, Lily, was back again, grabbing her arm. “We have to go.” 

 

“But what if he’s-” Emma took a step towards him, trying to fight her off, but Lily dragged her bodily, towards the front of the little shop, her feet sliding across the wood. Killian trailed after, feeling ill. It had been an accident, she was just trying to protect herself, but her face was streaked with guilty tears, mouth twisted in anguish as she was pulled away, and he could offer her no comfort.

 

When they opened the door to the little shop though it was not village air and escape that awaited them, but two castle guards, one poised to knock, taking in the scene behind them.

 

____

 

Killian felt like he was falling again, the world shifting abruptly, his stomach twisting as he found himself thrown into another room, his arms windmilling to find his balance. Stone walls and a huge ornate fireplace snapped into focus, some kind of study or library, richly appointed and grand, filling his vision with a crack. He rubbed his head and took it in.

 

Emma was there, dressed the same, clutching something in her hand, a thin silver chain dangling from her fist. It was perhaps the same day, later now if the dark of the windows was any indication. 

 

The other girl was nowhere to be seen, a beautiful dark haired woman, regal and furious, and a blonde man, less so on both counts, looked down at her.

 

“You can’t send her away,” Emma was pleading. “She’s all I have. My only friend.” 

 

“Emma,” the woman said shortly, obviously her mother, the resemblance fleeting but present. It was more the air of a mother in her countenance that tipped him off as to her identity. She looked down at her daughter sternly, but with a soft unmistakeable maternal love that made his heart clench. “You used  _ magic _ . You hurt that poor man. You’re lucky he doesn't remember what happened!”

 

“That’s not  _ her _ fault,” Emma said desperately. “It was an  _ accident.  _ I didn't mean to, I was just scared and-”

 

“You wouldn't have even been there if it wasn't for that...girl,” the woman interrupted, obvious distaste for the girl in question in her voice. Killian couldn't say he blamed her for the sentiment, resentment rising up in him as well over the child. 

 

“She’s not a good person Emma.” The woman kneeled down, more pleading now than angry, trying to make her daughter understand. “She’s stolen before, hurt people. She  _ keeps _ stealing and hurting people, no matter what we’ve done.” 

 

“She’s just doing what she can to survive,” Emma insisted bitterly. “She doesn't have anyone else. Just me.”

 

“We tried to help her, sweetie,” the woman insisted. “We gave her what we could. You were a great friend to her,” the woman reached out, stroked down blonde curls. “But some people don't  _ want _ to be helped.” 

 

“You sent her back to the streets,” Emma accused, jerking her head away.

 

“We sent her to Granny Lucas, if anyone could help her she could. No one sent her to _the_ _streets_. She stole from us Emma,” the man reminded her gently. “More than once. Alaric broke an arm chasing her down.” 

 

“He’s a clumsy fool,” Emma said sullenly looking away. The man, obviously her father, raised a hand, hiding a smile behind it under the guise of stroking his cheeks. Her mother, however, was not as amused. 

 

“She’s got darkness in her, Emma. And that’s not easy to overcome. We tried to help her, we did, Granny did,” her mother stood again, shaking her head. “We can't allow her to keep putting you in danger like that. Exposing you. I know one day you’ll see this was for the best.” 

 

“It’s always “for the best”,” Emma glared up at them with red furious eyes, her teeth clenched. “What's best for  _ you _ not anyone else. You didn't care about her, you didn't  _ try.  _ You sent her away like everyone else has done to her.” Her eyes were hard, her voice familiar, cold. “And I will  _ never  _ forgive you for that.” 

 

The smoke seemed to envelop her completely, it was truly unsettling how it snaked around her figure, covering her from head to toe in black before darting away. 

 

Killian stepped forward, his heart breaking. She was so young, and while he could understand her parent’s arguments he could see how much this girl had meant to her, how devastating this loss had been. The first of many to come no doubt. His Emma, trapped in her dark castle, on her isolated island in the sea, was so very alone, had been for so long. Was this the start? The first of many people who would leave her behind?

 

_ My only friend  _ stuttered against his chest as the room jolted suddenly again. 

 

____

 

Killian huffed in annoyance, his stomach churning from the snap and pull. It was disorienting and strange to be yanked from place to place, his brain rattling around in his skull, and he barely had time to adjust to each of the rapidly changing memories before he was tossed into another. There was also something heavy and crushing about them, an imperceptible pressure weighing him down from all sides, making it hard to breathe, like walking through dense fog. 

 

He found himself in a bedroom this time, and he had a good idea of who it belonged to. It was the room of a girl only recently grown into a teenager, toys and books arranged neatly around it, a small sword, jewels and elegant hair combs on the bureau. His chest warmed again, hand reaching out to touch the hem of a hanging peach gown on the door of an armoire, the air rippling around it like water. He pulled back startled, worried he had broken the spell, looking around to see if anything changed. 

 

It all seem intact, no worse for his meddling, but empty and silent. The thought had barely left his head before Emma burst through the door, making him jump. Couldn't anyone enter a bloody room normally? 

 

“Where is it?” she shrieked, her face twisted in fury. This was not the cold seething anger of a dark goddess, this was the hysterical rampage of a young child, despite the year or so that had passed. 

 

She grabbed a mahogany box off the bureau, yanking it open and flinging it to the side. Killian darted away on reflex, feeling foolish but unable to help himself. She yanked open a drawer, throwing aside the contents in angry fits. “I know you took it!”

 

“I didn't! I promise,” a small earnest voice said from the door. Killian turned. A young boy, perhaps 5 or 6 peeked into the room in trepidation. Dark black curls fell over his forehead, the family resemblance in his face as well, his eyes an exact match for Emma’s own. Killian’s throat grew thick. He knew this memory. 

 

“It was  _ mine,  _ it's all I had left of her,” Emma roared, throwing another drawer to the side. 

 

“I'm sorry! I told you, I didn't take that one, I took the red one, the one with the star,” the boy pleaded weakly, he stepped into the room. “I can help you look for it?”

 

“Get out,” Emma was seething rage, the smoke agitated and excited around her, tangling with her hair, wrapping around her waist. It was bloody terrifying to see it consume her. To know that she couldn't control her emotions, how she felt, the anger taking over. 

 

“No, no I can help-” the boy stepped forward again. 

 

“Get out!” Emma’s hand flew forward, the white pulse erupting again, striking him squarely, sending him backwards, into the hall out of sight. Killian let out the breath he had been holding. 

 

Color drained from her face, her anger vanishing instantly, giving way to concern.

 

“Leo?” She said weakly and stepped forward.

 

The name was echoed in shouts out in the hall, but he could only watch Emma, collapsing in on herself, crumbling and shrinking before his eyes. Emma had warned him there was nothing he could do, that he would feel helpless and frightened here, but that didn't prepare him at all for how hard it would be, watching her fall apart, knowing better, wishing more than anything he could change it.

 

“Leo!” The voice of her mother cried out from the doorway. She stepped halfway into the room, and he could see the girl’s father bent over a small form in the cracks between the hinges. 

 

“Emma, what did you do?” her mother was terrified, accusing in her fear. “Is he okay? Leo!” Her father murmured something Killian couldn't hear.

 

Emma stepped forward then, going towards her brother, but her mother whirled.

 

“No! Stay back,” the harsh fearful rebuke echoed in the room, filling the entire world just as Lily’s words has done, lashing at Emma like a physical blow. She stumbled back, her eyes shining. 

 

“Oh,” Killian breathed out. 

 

Something evil laughed, not inside the room but without, everywhere, scraping against his nerves, sending terror roaring through him. The smoke was thicker now, almost hiding her from view as she trembled and shook from worry, her hands grasping her elbows tightly to hold herself together as her mother and father spoke in anxious soothing voices out in the hall. He wanted to sweep her up, clutch the girl close, hold her crumbling pieces together.

 

Emma looked away, her eyes filling with tears, spilling over, and just as suddenly as they came she froze. Killian titled his head confused as he watched her pause, still trembling, and step forward to reach down, something out of sight under the bed catching her eye. When she rose she held a simple pendant, a crescent moon black and pearlescent on a familiar silver chain, the same one she had been clutching before. 

 

It was even harder to watch stricken realization settle across her face, sink into her bones as she sagged before him.

 

Killian stepped towards her, arm outstretched, unable to help himself, but before he’d made it a step the world snapped again. 

 

_____

 

It was a brief flicker this time, his feet barely touching ground. He could see her mother sobbing against her father’s chest distorted and far away, and a monster slinking through the dark.

 

Its skin was sparkling scales, its eyes like a serpent's, yellow and slitted and filled with giddy glee and Killian bicycled backwards on air as it approached, almost falling into dark empty space. Emma was next to him, visibly shaking, crying, and he wanted to grab her, steal her away as she edged backwards from it. Its teeth were yellow fangs, his mouth a cruel smile as it advanced on her. 

 

“Well hello there, dearie,” the thing rasped. “Looks like you belong to me now.”

 

____

 

The world shuddered again, shaking tremors so violent he could barely see as the scenes shifted and changed. Emma begging by the road, clutching her mother's gown, promises and apologies whispered into the air, and then the creature was back, filling the entire sky with gnarled teeth, snake slit eyes and that chilling giddy laugh. 

 

Emma shaking and terrified in a dark hall. Alone in a bare room. Flinching in the face of the creature as it screamed and raged. Letters brought by bird landing on her window sill, homesick tears streaking the ink to blend with the thick black smoke that she carried with her. So many days, scared and alone. So many. Anguish beat him down, tears filled his lungs and Killian fell to his knees, crying out for it to  _ stop.  _

 

And then it did, a bare circular room snapping into sudden focus, a small bed, a basin, and a chest of drawers the only occupants save for the girl herself. 

 

Emma. 

 

She was slightly older now, but not by much, her face thinner, her eyes duller, and her hands worked at ripping strips of fabric, knotting them together in rapid jerking motions. 

 

She was making a rope. He recognized the looping knots, sturdy and strong and glanced towards the open window. She was planning to escape.

 

A small beam of pride cut through the worry and heartache, her face so wonderfully determined as her fingers flew. Of course she wouldn’t give up, wouldn't give into the despair that weighed down everything here, like crushing sand, filling every corner, every nook, with sorrow.

 

She finished the final loop, gave a fleeting cautious look towards the heavy wooden door, and took in a deep breath as she ducked down, looping her makeshift rope over and over again around a leg of the chest of drawers. It made him nervous, truly, she was slight and thin, so very small, but he still wondered if it would hold her weight. A silly thing considering he knew she would be alright, no matter the outcome, he had the living proof, but his heart thundered as she climbed onto the sill, one foot shoved into a loop, tossing the length back behind her and wrapping the slack around her arm. 

 

She leapt backwards as a cry fell from his lips, rushing to the casement to look down after her.

 

It was a dizzying height, a tower room of an unfamiliar castle, not her island haven and not her childhood home, the stone pitch black in the night. She rappelled down the side with ease, not even really looking nervous, never looking down, the brave lass, and Killian swallowed, unsure if he should follow. Could he die in here? Was that even possible? He had read you couldn't die in dreams but memory was an altogether different thing. 

 

He had barely reached for the rope with a shaking hand before the room morphed and ebbed, dark night sky replacing candle light, the moon casting everything in a silver glow. 

 

“Thank the gods,” he muttered, catching a glimpse of gold by the brush, following after her. She had hidden a cache it seemed, slinging a heavy satchel across her body and wrapping a dark cloak around herself to cover the shine of her hair.

 

_ Clever girl _ he thought proudly. This was obviously a well planned attempt, who knew how long in the making, not some flight of fancy in the middle of the night on a whim. 

 

Emma slipped along the underbrush, towards a dark stable, casting glances behind her, her feet completely silenced on the leaves and twigs. He followed after, trying not to mimic her ducking movements, no one was chasing  _ him _ after all, and watched as she slipped into the stable, emerging moments later with a large black horse.

 

He stepped backwards startled. Horses were not his favorite of creatures, large and lumbering with huge terrifying hooves, and he had no experience with the animals beyond the rare ride in a coach or cab. He looked around helplessly as she took off, wondering if he was expected to mount up and follow her, if he even could, or if the world would suddenly shift and swirl again. He braced himself, steeled his stomach, watching her gallop away, but nothing happened. He frowned. 

 

She was almost out of sight now, the moon shining off the horse’s coat making it look like a fairytale creature, or perhaps Hades in disguise, stealing Persephone away to the Underworld, her figure growing dimmer and duller the further away she traveled.

 

A piercing whistle split the night, and Killian threw his hands up, the sound ringing in his ears, looking for the source. He heard Emma coming back, the horse’s thundering hooves cutting through the night, desperate protestations crying out as she tried to get it to stop, heading right back towards him and the stables at full speed.

 

A man stepped out of the darkness, younger than himself, perhaps mid-twenties, a shock of curly brown hair, and amused crinkled eyes. He grinned, leaning back to watch the animal barrel towards them. Killian flinched, positive she was going to crash right into them, bracing himself for the impact, but the horse reared up, sliding in the dirt just before. 

 

“Easy girl, easy,” the man said, reaching out to rub a soothing hand down its flank. Emma sat up, unclenching from around the beast’s neck to glare down at him. 

 

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” She hissed. 

 

“Next time you steal a horse maybe make sure it's owner isn’t sleeping in the same barn?” The man smiled at her amiably. “And that it's not trained to come right back.” She looked stricken for a second her eyes flickering to the barn then back to him. 

 

“Please,” Emma pleaded. “I just need to borrow it. I'll leave her somewhere you can get her back, I'll make sure she’s fed and-”

 

“If you think it'll be that easy to escape  _ The Dark One _ you obviously don't know him very well,” he said affably, still rubbing the animal down. 

 

“Oh, and you do?” Emma snapped. She slid off the horse.

 

“Well I  _ should _ , he  _ is _ my father,” the man smiled slyly at her shocked expression. “But I probably don't know him any better than you do.” 

 

All the color drained from Emma's face, her skin almost translucent in the moonlight. She stepped back in fear, her hands raising defensively.

 

“Easy,” he said, and it wasn't clear if he was talking to Emma or the horse, using the same soothing tone. He stepped towards her. “I'm not like him.” 

 

“Like hell,” Emma spat. She backed up another step. The man laughed and stepped towards her again, scanning her form from toe to crown. Killian bristled. 

 

“The old man didn't tell me he was taking them in so young,” he said. 

 

“I'm not his-” Emma looked at him in utter disgust. “I'm his  _ ward _ . He's training me.” 

 

“Is that what he told you?” He chuckled to himself. 

 

“And where have you been?” She glared. He sobered instantly. “I've been here for almost a year, I've never seen  _ you _ . He’s never even mentioned a son.”

 

“Away,” he said shortly. “He called me back, and here I am, the prodigal son returns.” He held his arms out and swept a dramatic bow.  “I don't have to tell  _ you _ what would happen if I’d refused, but good thing I didn’t because  _ look _ at what I found.”

 

“Please,” Emma’s eyes looked back to the castle at the mention of the creature, and she tried again, begging now. She sounded so heart broken, so absolutely desperate, Killian’s heart lurched. “You have to help me.” 

 

The man tugged at his hair, looking uneasy, but there was a flash across his expression, interest and curiosity, something like greed or ambition. It was hard to tell in the dark. The billowing smoke curled around her again and it set Killian’s hair on end, goosebumps alighting on his arms as the man stared her down. 

 

“I can't,” he said finally. “Not yet. Trust me, he’d find you anyway.”

 

Tears shone in her eyes but her face was cold fury. 

 

“Give me back the horse,” she demanded and squared herself, her palms rising again. 

 

“Did you not hear me?” He said. “There’s no use. Not like this.” 

 

“I can't stay here a minute longer,” Emma said, her hands trembling. “He’s…” she struggled to find the word.

 

“Callous? Cruel?” The man offered cheerfully. “Terrifying?”

 

“Yes,” she snapped. “If you know all that then you know you should _let_ _me_ _go_.”

 

“You want to go, so go. I'm telling you though he’ll have you back before morning, and it'll be worse for you.” 

 

“I just want to go back to my family.  _ Please _ ,” Emma tried again, the tears falling now, her hands shaking violently in front of her. The man was silent a moment.

 

“If you care about them you’ll stay,” he said finally, unsympathetic. “He’ll use them against you, that's what he  _ does.”  _

 

_ “ _ Emma, go,” Killian whispered, knowing it was useless, but the man's words were the ones she heard and they brought her up short, face shifting with indecision, her hands falling miserably to her sides as more tears streamed unchecked down her face.

 

“Hey, hey,” the man said stepping towards her. “It's alright.” He reached out, brushing one of the tears off her cheek with a single finger. Killian and Emma startled simultaneously, Emma pulling back, Killian stepping forward, Emma in fear, Killian in fury. 

 

The man stepped away, holding his hands up in innocent defense.

 

“You just looked like you could use a friend,” he said defensively.

 

“You’re  _ not  _ my friend,” Emma bit out.

 

“Not yet,” he held out a hand. “Baelfire.” 

 

She stared at it in disdain, pointedly wrapping her arms around herself.

 

He just laughed again, the sound grating in the silence. 

 

“Oh. You, I like. No worries, we’ll be friends soon enough. You’ll see.” 

 

____

 

The night rushed in, collapsing inward, a whirlpool of flickering images amongst black liquid ink, roaring noise, and havoc. It was overwhelming and terrifying. His eyes burned, ears ringing, as wind and storm tossed him about, images flashing.

 

Emma reaching out her tower window and pulling up a basket filled with fruits and flowers, smiling to herself as she lugged it inside. 

 

The reptilian man circling around her, lecturing, his voice rushing into Killian’s ears high pitched and grating.

 

“Not. Good. Enough. Dearie.” 

 

Emma sneaking down a corridor, yanked into a closet, hushed giggles, grasping hands, a stolen kiss. His stomach turned at the delight on her face, the adoration, the predatory glint in the man’s eyes.

 

Emma shaking and trembling with strain, sweat pouring down her face mixing with tears as white liquid magic poured from her hands, swirling and churning into a vessel of pure onyx glass, the reptilian man clapping in glee, giving encouragements and praise.

 

“Take me back,” her voice pressing against her mother's chest, tears falling onto her head as the woman clutched her. “Please take me back.”

 

“Emma we  _ can't,  _ this is the best thing for you right now. There is a debt owed here and you need to learn how to use your gift, control it, I know it's hard, I know he’s frightening but you have nothing to fear from him. There’s no one else Emma, we can't help you anymore. We’ve handled it so wrong, we need to make it right.” 

 

“No. no. no. You don't understand,” Emma moaned against her. 

 

“He can't hurt you, even if he tried,” her mother pulled her back, clutched her face between her hands. “He  _ can't.  _ We made sure of that. This will all make sense one day I promise. And you’ll have learned how to control it, and I just  _ know _ it’ll make you even stronger, your light brighter, and you’ll be the  _ best _ leader for our people one day.” 

 

The woman took in a shaky breath, pressed her lips to her daughter’s forehead. “My step-mother couldn't control her powers, and it changed her, made her dark, greedy, and they  _ feared _ her. I can't let that happen to you my sweet girl. They’re going to love you so much, just like we do, they’ll embrace your gift when you use it for  _ good,  _ and you won't have to be afraid anymore sweetheart.” 

 

“I don't care if  _ they  _ love me,” Emma spat, jerking away, the world was black around her, just her and her mother surrounded by darkness. “I only cared if  _ you _ did. I wasn’t afraid,  _ you  _ were.” 

 

Letters filled the sky, apologies and promises, plans to visit written where the clouds should be in flowing elegant script, reminders that this was for the best, that he couldn't hurt her, royal seals taking the place of the sun. Pleading words that they loved her, that they missed her, flew past like birds in flight. She burned them in the fireplace, and wept over the ashes, regretting what she’d done from anger in the harsh light of the morning. 

 

It was a dizzying and overwhelming cacophony of memories, and he gritted his teeth against the storm. Squinted against roiling chaos, feeling waves of despair and anguish washing over him, filling his lungs, seeping into his pores, replacing blood with sorrow and hurt. 

 

This is how she had  _ felt.  _ Abandoned and lost and terrorized, used for some dark purpose she couldn't understand, left behind to rot in the tower of an ominous fortress by the people who claimed to love her, for a  _ mistake _ . Nails pressed into his palm as he braced himself against the torrent, hook digging into his leg as he tried to keep from screaming, unsure if they were his feelings or hers.

 

The world zoomed in close, the shadows coalescing into a single room, large and opulent, a huge canopied bed taking up most of it, a fire warm in the hearth. The silence was startling after so much noise, and it seemed wrong, just their breathing and the crackling fire filling the space where cacophony had been.

 

“You know what to do right?” the man, Baelfire, shimmered into view, Emma following behind him. They stood close, pressed together before the fire, his voice whispering and urgent, curling a lock of her hair around his fingers.

 

“Yes,” her voice was trembling. “But what if he-” Baelfire pressed a finger to her lips.

 

“He won't, it's all planned out, we talked about this,” he murmured. “We can  _ do this.  _ And then we’ll be free, we can go wherever you want.”

 

Emma nodded, still seeming unsure about whatever  _ this _ was, but her eyes shone with excitement. She looked much the same as she had the night by the stable, not long had passed, a dark crescent moon black against the fabric of her nightgown, the pale cream of it lit by the flickering fire, casting her hair in strands of gold. 

 

Baelfire leaned down to kiss her, and Killian's stomach twisted at the picture they made. She was so young, barely older than a child and his heart thundered in revolted rage. 

 

“You better get back,” he whispered against her lips. He raised an eyebrow, fingers teasing at a white ribbon on her night dress. “Unless that is, you want to stay?” 

 

Killian felt sick, watching the emotions play across her face, fearful and uncertain, innocent and guileless. Her hands wrung at the front of her night gown, twisting the fabric, reminding him of a lost girl standing among pies and bread in a baker’s cottage. Baelfire leaned down again, pressed his lips to hers more urgently this time, fingers in her hair. 

 

Killian turned away, unable to watch, cold fire filling his chest, turning his blood to ice water in his veins. It reminded him of doe eyed girls in the brothels, a higher price for younger flesh, scared and trembling but without a choice, desperate to earn their place, seeking to avoid harsh punishment by whatever means they could. It wasn't the same, she looked at this man with love shining in her eyes not the promise of coin, and she had obviously grown to care deeply for him, but she was so alone here, abandoned and in constant fear, and it felt  _ wrong. _

 

“O-okay,” Emma stammered out in a hushed whisper. “I'll stay.” 

 

Killian squeezed his eyes closed and swallowed, grateful for the sharp tug behind his belly button, now familiar, the rushing gasp of wind as the world tremored again. 

 

____

 

He took a breath and opened his eyes, blinking a bit at the lack of light. They were in a huge darkened room filled from wall to wall with odds and ends, a spinning wheel turned on its own in the center, as if moved by a ghost, making his skin crawl. 

 

Emma crept around it, paid it no mind, lip between her teeth, and approached a huge towering cabinet against the wall. She reached out, and something sparked in the air just as she touched the doors, the acrid scent of smoke as she hissed in pain, sucking her fingers into her mouth. 

 

Killian frowned, and walked closer, the room too dim to see her clearly, trying to work out what was happening. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, stained red with blood, looking black in the dark, and took a shuddering breath as she used it to open the doors. There was no spark this time, no surge of crackling energy, but the inside appeared completely empty. He frowned and stepped closer, a thin wooden box on a single shelf coming into view, the only object inside. It seemed to hum, even over the clicking of the spinning wheel, the sound of their harsh breaths, it murmured with dark virulent noise and had his teeth pressing together against it. 

 

Emma hesitated, looked over her shoulder, murmured a quiet unintelligible plea, and reached forward. She snapped the box open at the same time she leaned backwards, and they both stared down at a long, wickedly curving dagger on red crushed velvet, the imprinted edges reminding him of the ribbons of smoke that danced around her constantly in these terrible visions. The inky wisps were a whirlwind now, snapping and snaking in rapid eddies around her hand as she reached out, fingers playing across the hilt. 

 

“Wouldn't do  _ that _ if I were you, dearie,” a sneering lilting voice pierced the darkness, startling them both. Emma dropped the dagger with a gasp, whirling to face him.

 

If the monster was frightening before he was nightmarish terror now, his face twisted and furious, snake eyes almost red, glowing with rage, all of it belying the unnatural grin stretched across yellow pointed teeth. 

 

“So this was his plan,” he said consideringly. 

 

“H-how did you-?” Emma stammered out, shaking so hard the wooden cabinet door behind her rattled and shook.

 

“Squid ink ain't what it used to be,” he replied in a nasally singsong that made the hair on Killian’s neck stand to attention. “Doesn't age well you see.” He had no idea what that meant, it was a bizarre statement, but the creature was furious and that was what mattered.

 

Emma swallowed, but despite her obvious fear, squared her shoulders, glaring at him, defiant. It amazed him that even so young she was just as fierce, just as strong, even when faced with dark demons and crushing heart break she kept her chin forward, faced everything head on. 

 

“Are you going to kill us?” She asked, her voice strong, barely a tremor. Killian’s blood was rushing through his ears, his chest heavy with dread, but also pride, more proud of this amazing girl who would grow into an amazing woman than he had ever been of anything.

 

“Us?” The monster laughed, the sound skating against Killian’s bones. “Did you bring someone else with you dearie?”

 

Emma looked stricken for a moment, and just as quickly, angry.

 

“If you hurt him I’ll-”

 

“You’ll what?” The creature hissed all humor gone. “He’s _my_ _son_ , all I have left, what are _you_?” 

 

He turned away, his hand stopping the spinning wheel. 

 

“He’s gone.” His voice was hollow and dull, long pointed nails dragging across the wood.

 

“Gone?” The broken whisper of that simple word made Killian’s eyes burn on her behalf, the pieces of a shattered heart pierced and pricked by every letter, every breath that came after.

 

“Before the ink had dried,” this voice too spoke of heartbreak, reflected back in cold and callous words, laced with blunted remorse, a parent’s grief, a father’s failure. It was odd indeed coming from such a fearsome creature, but real and raw, and Killian felt some small measure of sympathy for him too. “I can't find him anymore.” There was a poignant silence for a moment as that sank in. Then he was speaking again, back to mocking amusement.

 

“And he left you holding the bag dearie,” the monster turned back to her, eyes flashing with eerie yellow light. “Ah, young love.” 

 

“He said-” Emma’s throat worked as she tried to speak. She swallowed. “That without the dagger you could find him immediately, always, make him come back. He couldn't just...leave?”

 

The creature didn't answer with words but rather the splintering of wood and crashing chaos as he picked up the spinning wheel, heaving it across the room in roaring rage, straw and thin threads of gold trailing after. Emma reared back, pressing herself against the wooden door, tears falling freely as she ducked and braced herself in shaking terror while he tore the room apart around them. Glass shattered, book cases fell, lost in the war against dark anguish. 

 

When the monster was done it sat there heaving, deep rasping breaths of air for what felt like an eternity, the room thick with the smoke that had trailed her through every recollection so far.

 

“Are you going to kill  _ me _ ?” Emma asked again, her voice still just as steady. 

 

“Kill you? Now why would I do something like that?” The creature asked, turning to her, an unsettling slow twist of neck and body, his voice suddenly dangerously cheerful. 

 

“Because I-” she looked away. “I tried to steal from you? Your-your dagger. Bael-” she broken off. “He told me what it does.” 

 

“Oh I'm not nearly done with  _ you _ yet dearie,” it said darkly. 

 

“I just wanted to go home,” she said softly, miserably, her voice cracking as she looked down. “I don't care about your stupid dagger or magic. Please, just let me go  _ home.” _

 

“I'm afraid that's impossible. A deal’s a deal after all!” 

 

Emma’s head snapped up at the word.

 

“Deal?”

 

“Yes. You know a bargain. An agreement. An accord. An understanding between two mutually benefitted parties. Royal education is definitely lacking these days,” the thing trilled. 

 

“What deal?” Emma whispered. Killian could barely breathe.

 

“Why, the one I made with your parents of course!” the creature watched the emotions play across her face with dark delight, reveling in her reactions, drinking them in, eyes shining. He flicked his wrist, a roll of parchment appearing in his hands, glowing faintly with an internal light of its own.

 

“To defeat Regina. One prrroduct of True Love signed, sealed and delivered,” he leaned forward and hissed at her. 

 

“But they wouldn't-they would never-” Emma’s legs seemed to give out beneath her, sinking helplessly to the floor, and Killian stepped forward automatically to catch her, his arms passing through her like water, the world rippling. He gritted his teeth in frustration, eyes burning with seething hatred at the creature.

 

“But they  _ did,”  _ the creature waved the parchment. “It's all right here.” 

 

He tossed it to her feet and Emma scrambled to grab it. She wrenched it open with trembling fingers, her eyes flicking across the page with stunned disbelief. Whatever it said must have been enough to convince her. She collapsed completely, the contract falling from her fingers to disappear in a puff of dark red smoke before it hit the ground. 

 

“Oh it's not _ forever  _ dearie,” the creature said in a poor show of sympathy. “Just until I get what I want.” 

 

“And what do you want?” She asked tonelessly.

 

“Why your magic of course,” he said as if it should be perfectly obvious. “The lightest in the land.” 

 

____

 

The world shifted again, the overwhelming tornado of whirling chaos and flickering images back again and he gritted his teeth, bracing himself against it. 

 

Emma’s mother crying, pleading and begging at her feet as an older Emma looked on with cold indifference. Another visit bathed in pitched black. 

 

“Emma,  _ no _ . We would  _ never  _ give you up. Never trade you. Rumplestiltskin is lying, manipulating you. That's what he does. We’re your parents, we love you, more than anything, we would never give you to  _ him. Not like that.”  _ Her mother shook her head again, her face streaked with tears.

 

“Except that's exactly what you  _ did _ ,” the tone was a more familiar imperious coldness but it sounded wrong coming from her lips.

 

“No!” Her mother shook her head. “It's not what it looks like Emma  _ please.  _ It's not what it seems, he's  _ lying _ to you, twisting what happened.”

 

The girl’s father appeared suddenly from smoke, her mother disappearing into the black fog, and he grabbed her to him, clutched her close, his hands in her hair. She looked over his shoulder, her face a mask, but her eyes were shining.

 

“We wouldn't trade you for _anything_ ,” he murmured into her hair. “You have to _know_ _that_. We thought we were doing the right thing, helping you. It wasn’t part of some _deal,_ he said he could help you, help you control it _.”_ Emma pulled away. 

 

“You sent me away,” she said dully, the words reverberating off the black, filling the world. “That's all I need to know.”

 

The sky was letters and script again, pleading begging words on tear stained pages written with shaking hands.  _ We miss you. We love you. Please let us see you. Your brother misses you. Emma please.  _ They flew away as quickly as they appeared, dark laughter filling the sky, flames licking across the pages, setting the sky alight, and Killian shrank back, feeling heat on his face. 

 

A dark creature toiling into the night, hidden by shadows, absorbed in his studies, mindless with need, throwing a globe across the room. Emma stepped forward from the dark, hesitated, and then steeled herself, laying her hand along his shoulder, sympathy and companionship born of shared loss offered in the palm of her hand. The creature laid his own on top of it but said nothing. 

 

Her face beaming in pride as she created life from the air, the creature clapping in glee. A tiny butterfly dancing at her fingertips, brilliant in a beam of sun. 

 

Emma wiping tears of frustration as her magic petered out, whatever she was doing failing. The creature growling in disdain.

 

“Useless,” he snapped.

 

“I'll get it,” she snapped back. He smiled, not quite fond but close enough. 

 

“I have no doubt.” 

 

Emma working side by side with the monster night after night, no fear there any longer, only confusion on her face as she toiled, questioning words about their purpose, the expected result, but all she got back was confirmation of her failures, harsh words about her lack of abilities. But occasionally, praise too, gleaming eyes and whispered encouragement, as she grew stronger, older, more beautiful right before Killian’s eyes, the years passing in an overwhelming gyre of picture and sound.

 

Until it all went black. 

____

 

He opened his eyes to the same room as before, brighter now in daylight, altered by time, Emma’s back to him as she worked again. The air was thick with the dark smoke, crawling across the ceiling, seeping down the walls. 

 

Killian stepped towards her, taking her in. She was closer to his Emma now, save for the blonde curls hanging long down her back instead of silver threads, almost a decade older at least, and the thought of her spending all those years in the company of this monster, away from her family, alone with the darkness, had his heart clenching. 

 

Her motions were quick and efficient, years of experience under her belt now, bottles clinking as she loomed over a small cauldron, a spell or a potion perhaps coming together under her hands, he didn't know which, whatever it was it smelled sickly sweet and cloying, turning his stomach, but she paid it no mind. 

 

Billowing red smoke filled the space to Killian's right and he skittered away, watching as the creature, Rumplestiltskin materialized into view. 

 

“Ah the sweet smell of magic in the morning,” the creature breathed in deep, leaning over the cauldron. “Oh very good dearie. This will do nicely.” 

 

Emma smiled thinly.

 

“Now for the final ingredient,” Rumplestiltskin drew his dagger, the same wicked curves and dark voices that set Killian’s teeth on edge, and pressed a tip of one gnarled finger to the end. Blood welled and dropped into the cauldron, the wound healing over instantly. He set the dagger down, peering over the cauldron excitedly as it churned with the new addition.

 

“You never said what this was going to do? It’s from the book we found right? Another of your little experiments?” She said it as a joke but Killian could tell she wanted nothing more than to know. “Moss from the north side a tree, a moonstone, owl feathers. It's almost like a -” she paused. “Super powered locator spell?” 

 

“In a manner of speaking, excellent deduction, dearie,” he was buzzing with excitement, bouncing in place. “And light magic approved. Now. Give it a little more.” His fingers waggled as he grinned.

 

Emma hesitated. 

 

“What are you trying to locate? We’ve been at this for years, and you never tell me what it is we’re looking for,”  she asked, her voice uneasy. 

 

“That’s for me to know and you to help me find,” he waved a hand at the cauldron. “If you please.” 

 

She frowned but raised her hand anyway, white opalescent magic trickling forth, the cauldron bubbling and spitting, blue smoke curling from the surface of a viscous liquid.

 

“If it doesn't work again it's  _ not  _ my fault,” she warned. “I won't have you sniping at me all day.”

 

Rumpelstiltskin waved her off, too intent on the boiling liquid. He looked half crazed as he took the cauldron in hand, picking it up as if it weighed nothing, and Emma and Killian stepped back simultaneously as he tipped it, tilting thick fluid onto the floor. 

 

At first it did nothing, a mess on the stone, hope dying on the monster’s face. And then the potion  _ screamed _ , writhing and churning as Killian looked on in horror. Emma too was bewildered and terrified, stepping backwards and clutching her stomach as the scream went on and on, horrifying and loud, growing deeper, the liquid morphing, glossy and sleek, becoming solid.

 

“What is happening?” She yelled over the din, but Rumplestiltskin ignored her, too focused, his face filled anew with something like hope, anticipation.

 

The thing on the floor looked like a sculpture carved from ice, a kneeling man, arm thrown over his face, mouth twisted in a scream. Glossy and sleek like melted sugar, someone frozen or trapped inside.

 

Emma realized who it was a split second before Killian did, her voice breaking. 

 

“Bae?” She whispered. 

 

The scream died as the liquid melted again, poured away, disappearing into the floor with burning acidic drops, evaporating into mist, leaving the man behind. 

 

“Emma?” He lowered his arm, completely confused, and then shouted in fear when he realized not only where he was, but who was also there with them.

 

“What the hell?” He yelled, his eyes darting, and he backed away, hands out, looking for an escape. “Stay away from me.”

 

“Bae...please,” the creature pleaded, and Killian felt that flash of sympathy again, the awe in his voice at seeing his son, the obvious dismay. 

 

Despite all the horror this demon had no doubt been responsible for, he looked at his son like he loved him, and that was more than Killian had ever known. Still, hatred burned in his heart for the men who had broken hers so completely, visions of her wrecked, destroyed, clawing for a rolled sheaf of parchment on the floor filling his head. Making her use her magic to reopen old wounds, split her heart open without warning, without her knowledge, against her will. No way Emma would have done this if she had known, no way she would have brought this man to her of her own free will. She looked like she could crumble to dust at any minute, the sudden rush of emotions, the surprise of seeing him before her, too much, and too fast. 

 

“Send me back,” Baelfire demanded. “You have no right!” His eyes flickered to Emma. “And what is  _ she  _ still doing here?”

 

He couldn't have hurt her more if he had struck her down. Killian clenched his fist at his side, snarling with rage. Emma reeled back, her breath leaving her with a pained choking gasp, her eyes glossy. Pieces of her chipping away as she came to terms with the bizarre scene before her, the man she loved speaking about her in such a way after so very long. Years of memories pushed down, forgotten, ignored, suddenly rushing to the surface to drown her in waves of hurt and pain. 

 

Baelfire looked at Rumplestiltskin incredulous.

 

“You didn't tell her?” He yelled. “It's been  _ ten years.”  _

 

The creature opened his mouth to respond but Emma spoke first.

 

“Tell me what?” She refused to look at Baelfire, her entire body trembling. She was so fragile, thinned by grief, as if she could blow away at any moment. 

 

“Nothing of importance,” the creature waved a hand dismissively, turned fully to his son. “Bae I _missed_ you. I needed to see you again, explain things. I spent every day since you left trying to find a way to _find_ _you_ , break through the spell you stole. So we can talk. Make things right.” 

 

“You kept an innocent girl prisoner for a decade and now you want to  _ talk _ ?” Baelfire ran an agitated hand through his hair.

 

“I'm not a prisoner,” Emma snapped. “I stay here because I  _ choose _ to stay here.” 

 

“Did he threaten you?” He asked. “Your family? What did you do?” He reeled on the man, furious.

 

“That’s none of your business,” Emma snapped. “And I'm not  _ staying _ any longer.” She took in a shuddering breath and turned on her heel, headed for the door. 

 

“Ask him about the deal,” Baelfire said just as her hand touched the handle. “I know about that, what his plans were. I know that's what he told you. How he convinced you. Ask him.” 

 

She froze but didn't turn around, her hand flexing on the metal. Killian swallowed, anticipation clawing at his back. 

 

“Bae,” Rumplestiltskin pleaded, sounding nothing like the monstrous creature from before, sounding almost human. “We can deal with all that in a moment, I need to explain things _ to you _ . I've missed you so much. Please, son.” 

 

“Then explain it to  _ her _ first,” Baelfire said bitterly. 

 

“Explain  _ what _ to me?” Emma whirled. “I have  _ nothing _ to do with this! You  _ left, you abandoned _ me, left me with  _ him _ without even a glance backwards, just disappeared, and  _ now _ suddenly you care?” She was practically screaming now, her entire body quaking with the rage that had slowly built since liquid magic revealed a man she had never wanted to see again. Killian could feel her heartbreak like a physical thing, little pinpricks of heat along his chest as tears spilled down her cheeks. She whirled on Rumplestiltskin.

 

“And you! I have done  _ everything _ you ever asked me too. Horrible things, terrible things, things I can’t ever undo, I turned my back on my family and you used me to-to,” a choked sobbed burst from her throat. “Bring  _ him  _ back here? And you couldn’t tell me that's what we were doing?”

 

“I used your magic for a lot more than that dearie,” Rumplestiltskin said. “And by your choice. Your words not mine.” 

 

“I'm sure she made that choice with all the facts,” Baelfire said sarcastically. 

 

“What is he  _ talking  _ about Rumple?” Emma glared at the creature. 

 

“Never you mind,” he went to wave his hand, perhaps to send her away, but Emma was faster, reaching the work table in two rapid steps, snatching up the dagger he had discarded in favor of the spell that would bring back his son. The creature froze, realizing his error as soon as her hand wrapped around the hilt. 

 

The room seemed to draw in a breath, held it, suspended in grinding anticipation, overbearing heat filling Killian’s chest with the urge to  _ breathe. _

 

“Wouldn't do that if I were you dearie,” the threat was unmistakable, echoing, the monster’s voice thick with oncoming danger. 

 

“Oh please,” Emma snapped. “I know you can’t hurt me. Couldn't lay a finger on me if you tried.” 

 

He froze.

 

“My mother told me, years ago, it took me awhile to work it out, put together what she meant. You  _ literally _ can’t hurt me,” Emma was panting, the well of emotions making her gasp, not enough air in the heavy room, her eyes still shining with tears. “I just thought she was naive, too trusting, that she didn't realize what a  _ monster _ you are.”

 

Killian edged closer, the impending sense of doom that had hung over everything so far stretched and lengthened, pressed down even heavier, crushing him under the weight. He pleaded with her mentally to put the dagger down, begged her across time and space, but the memory of her held it more forcefully forwards.

 

“All your threats, your promises if I didn't do what you wanted. You never followed through, they were just words. Empty words. Like all of them were.”

 

Rumplestiltskin still looked wary but curious as well, cocking his head to the side. Baelfire stood on alert next to him, eyeing the dagger with equal parts fear and greed, his hand raised slightly, his foot shifting.

 

“Then why did you stay?” Rumplestiltskin asked.

 

“Because I couldn't go back to them,” Emma whispered. “Not after what they did. But I couldn't let you use them against me to get what you wanted either.” She raised the dagger.

 

“Now, tell me what he’s talking about  _ Dark One,”  _ she commanded, and the creature tensed, its mouth working, fighting against some invisible force.

 

“The deal I made with your parents wasn't for you,” he bit out, obviously very much against his will, choking on the words. 

 

Emma almost dropped the dagger.

 

“What?” She breathed out the question, and raised the dagger again, her arm shaking violently now. “What was it for?” She could barely get the words out, stifled and choked, tears spilling more freely now, falling to the floor in rapid drops.

 

He didn't speak, just waved a hand, a small glass vial appearing in it as he brought it back around. It appeared empty at first, until Killian looked closer, two intertwining threads, one red, one gold hovered in the center, glowed with white light. 

 

“What. Is. That?” Emma sobbed out, she could hardly speak for the tears, and Killian was reminded of a little girl, finding a lost necklace under a bed, after it was far too late. 

 

“The product of true love,” the creature croaked, appearing to struggle to breathe, wheezing out the words even as cold rage burned in his eyes. “A potion. Made from a strand of hair from each of their heads. Signed, sealed and delivered. Years before you were born.” 

 

“But the contract?” She gasped out.

 

“Was real, but it wasn't about  _ you.  _ The terms of it were already fulfilled, it was just... paperwork.” Rumple smiled. “Now my dagger, if you please.” 

 

“No,” Emma jerked it back, clutching it to her chest protectively. “My mother said you had a deal. She  _ said.”  _

 

The creature swallowed.

 

“My freedom. I was prisoner in Regina’s castle, when she fell they would have left me to rot,” his words grated against his throat. “But they let me go, in exchange for a future favor. Happy to hold something over  _ my head  _ for once.  __ And then they cashed in the chip. Wanted me to train you, show you how to control your magic, worked in that I couldn't ever harm you, their precious daughter. They didn't say I couldn't use you for my own purposes though. Light magic is out of my reach, but it can do so very much,” his eyes flickered to Baelfire meaningfully. 

 

Emma made a noise, half rage, half sorrow and stepped forward. 

 

“Emma,” Baelfire said, approaching her slowly, arms out. “Easy. Give me the dagger.”

 

“Get away from me,” she screamed backing away. 

 

Killian’s heart thundered. She was falling apart before his very eyes. All those wasted years, all that pain, believing her parents had traded her away, believing they had sold her to save lives deemed more important than her own. Killian could barely breathe for grief, his poor beautiful Emma, used and deceived so cruelly by terrible wicked men. 

 

“Emma, I can stop him,” Baelfire said. “I have a way. What do you think I've been doing all these years?”

 

“ _ I _ can stop him,” she growled out. “I don't need  _ you _ to  _ kill _ him.” 

 

“Think about what you’re doing,” he edged closer. “About what you’re saying.”’ He chuckled softly. “The Emma I knew couldn't ever do something like that.”

 

Her eyes flashed.

 

“The Emma you knew is gone,” when she turned to the man Killian's heart stopped. Her eyes were cold, her expression terrifying, anger and heartbreak and vengeance twisting it into beautiful destruction. “She was gone the moment you left her here,  _ to die.”  _

 

“I knew he wouldn't kill you,” Baelfire said eyes wide, shaking his head. “That he couldn't touch you. He told me everything. I knew you’d be safe. He would have never stopped hunting us if we left together, if we took that dagger with us.” 

 

“I didn't want the dagger,” Emma screamed at him. “I wanted _you_. And you left me, you told me to take it, and you _left_ _me_.” 

 

“The spell I stole only worked for me. Light magic,” he soothed. “The dagger was the only thing that would work for  _ you.”  _

 

_ “Then why did you leave before I had it?”  _ Her voice echoed unnaturally in the room, her hands glowing with unchecked power as her anger grew, casting the dagger in sharp relief against golden light.

 

“Bae,” Rumplestiltskin warned. He was still frozen, his face a mask but his eyes were alive with anger, and the barest hint of fear, flickering between her hands and the dagger, back and forth, his body trembling with the need to move _.  _

 

“I got scared okay? I always thought you would find me eventually, when you were free from him. That he would tell you, or send you away.” He took another step towards her. “I was afraid, and I was a coward, but I never stopped loving you Emma.” 

 

It was exactly the wrong thing to say in that moment. The moment when something snapped, an almost audible thing as her face changed, the tears stopping, that cold marble mask falling into place. 

 

“Well I stopped loving you,” she said tonelessly. “And you won't have to be  _ afraid _ anymore, not when I've made him  _ pay.  _ Made it so he will  _ never _ hurt anyone else.  _ Use _ anyone else.”

 

“Emma don't!” Killian cried, the words leaving against his will, feet stepping forward of their own accord, knowing it was useless as her hand moved, lashed through the air like lightning.

 

“No!” Baelfire dived forward, the dagger sinking into his stomach without resistance as he threw himself in front of his father.

 

Emma’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping open in surprise at seeing him suddenly before her. Her eyes flickered over his face, took in the pained strain, the fear, and her mask melted as the realization of what she had done took hold. 

 

Emma gasped and stepped back as his hands reached forward. She looked down. Blood ran bright red over her hand, still clutching the hilt, and she pulled it back, trembling. 

 

“Baelfire?” She asked, sounding so small, looking up again, disbelieving as he sank to his knees, choking on pain.

 

“What have you done?” the creature cried, jerking against invisible bonds. “You killed my boy, _you_ _killed_ _him_.” 

 

Killian had heard the anguished screams of many dying men, but never in his life had he heard a cry as heart wrenching as the one that issued forth from a demon’s mouth. 

 

“I didn't-” Emma could barely speak. “I didn’t-”

 

“Bae, no,” the monster moaned. “Not my boy. My beautiful boy.” 

 

“Papa,” Baelfire whispered, his eyes fluttering closed. He gasped, and choked. And then he was gone. The pressure seemed to grow as the breath left him, the world pressing even heavier around them. 

 

“I'm sorry,” Emma cried. “I didn't know he would-”

 

The creature was silent, staring down at the body of his son, the pool of blood growing beneath it, edging closer and closer to where a father stood frozen and helpless.

 

“I will make them  _ burn,”  _ the creature hissed suddenly, and it  _ was _ a creature, all traces of the man were gone when he looked up, his slitted eyes red and black, seeming to grow and change before Killian’s eyes into a nightmare of scaled shining flesh and wicked claws. “I will hunt them down and strip the skin from their bones.” 

 

“I didn't mean-” Emma gasped. She was crying harder now, barely able to hold onto the knife her hand was trembling so much. “I would never-.”

 

“Your entire kingdom will be nothing but smoke and ash when I am through,” it rasped. “Every man, every woman, every child will be crushed beneath my feet, will suffer in _your_ _name_.”

 

“No,” Emma whispered. “I didn't want to hurt him. I  _ loved  _ him.” She cried brokenly. 

 

“I will drink the blood from their bodies and feast on their bones, and  _ you _ will watch as I murder them all,” it hissed.

 

“No,” she shook her head, and Killian closed his eyes, hearing what came next in the determined tears in her voice. “You won’t.” 

 

With a cry she surged forward, burying the dagger in the creature’s stomach as well.

 

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered, shifting closer. “I'm so sorry.” The creature, of all

things, smiled. 

 

“Thank you,” it whispered. “Thank you.” 

 

Killian watched in horror as Rumplestiltskin seemed to melt before them, dark fluid where a man had been curling up her arm, wrapping around her hand where it still clutched the dagger in a white knuckled grip, stained red with blood, unable to release it.

 

Emma screamed, backing away, but it followed her, snaking around her body, joining with the dark smoke, the two twisting together to become one solid mass, curling tendrils sliding around her limbs like a living breathing creature.

 

It was terrible to watch. Killian had seen many terrible things, but none of them,  _ none of them _ , compared to watching the woman he loved be devoured whole by some dark entity, helpless to stop it as she screamed and pleaded all alone in a room with two people who had died by her hand, one by a grim twist of fate fueled by vengeance, the other to protect her family from the same. 

 

He couldn't look away as it  _ consumed _ her, her screams scorching his soul, lancing physical pain as he trembled and shook in the wake of it.  _ This _ was the specter that haunted her, the world’s purest evil filling her veins, taking her over, wrapping her in a cloak of death and destruction forged by the very incarnation of darkness itself.  This was the demon that looked back from her eyes, that grinned wicked grins and delighted in vengeance.

 

He loved her all the more for it and the fierceness of that realization almost brought him to his knees as she clawed and fought against it before him. She could still smile despite  _ all this _ . Could still dance and laugh and look at him with pride. Could still touch his face with tender care, and kiss him so sweetly it made him want to weep. All this terrible black filling her to the brim, and she was still underneath it all, after all the centuries of her life, she was still  _ Emma. _

 

_ _____ _

 

Killian was still crying as the world shifted, hot tears streaking down his face as it morphed and changed once again. He didn't know how much more he could take, how much more he could watch her suffer, but she had wanted him to see this, had trusted him with these memories, had begged him to look at her the same despite them. And he would. He would watch every last one, would see every moment he could, and when he was done he would show her how much he loved her, would prove  _ that _ to her if he did nothing else. Prove to her he would never leave her, abandon her to the dark.

 

They were in another castle, not the ominous fortress from before but brighter, cheerier, and it took him a moment to realize it was her home as things warped into place. 

 

The King and Queen were on their thrones, a teenage boy beside them. Killian realized it was a little boy grown, his face no longer round cheeks and dimples but high cheekbones and defined jaw.

 

He looked like Emma, but darker, his hair still curling but long now, his eyes just the same. He looked bored and listless while his parents smiled serenely at each group that came forward, happy, if not a bit strained. A day of justice in the works it seemed, the gathered crowd shifting restlessly as they waited their turn.

 

The doors to the hall banged open and Killian whirled, sucking in a breath as Emma came into view. It was  _ his _ Emma, her hair silver, her face neutral stone, black leather turning her skin to porcelain. She entered the hall to startled gasps and tiny shrieks as the crowd caught sight of her. 

 

The King and Queen, her parents, sat straighter, blinking in disbelief.

 

“Emma?” Her mother said brokenly. And then louder. “Emma!” 

 

She took off from her throne, all regal decorum left behind as she  _ flew _ down the steps to her daughter. 

 

Emma collapsed into her, fell into her arms, going to her knees and wrapping her arms around her mother’s waist.

 

“Mom. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry,” she sobbed as her mother shushed her, stroking her hair. 

 

Killian felt more tears, happier ones fall down his face now, at the love that shone in their faces, her father joining them just seconds later, smiling softly as he enveloped the two women in his life in a soft hug, pressing his cheek to Emma’s hair. 

 

“It's okay,” her mother whispered. “It's alright.” 

 

“I did something terrible,” Emma sobbed. 

 

“Shhh,” her mother said. “I don’t care. I don't care. We missed you so much, sweetheart.” 

 

Her father gave a quick little nod to someone in the wings and the guards took the hint, the unspoken order, gathering the curious crowd, leading them out to give the family some measure of privacy. 

 

Leo stepped forward.

 

“Emma?” He asked. Emma sobbed harder.

 

“Oh Leo,” he stepped forward into the hug, pulled into her arms, taller than her now, especially as she kneeled and shook, but he still seemed smaller and young, the ghost of the boy he’d been in his face as he looked at his sister. Killian bit his lip, glad no one could see him now, blubbering like a bloody baby all alone, feeling like a voyeur looking in on this intimate moment when he had no right to.

 

He was glad she got this, glad she got to seek their forgiveness before whatever came next. Glad  _ he _ got to see it even if it was uncomfortable and strange. He could taste joy in his mouth, happiness on his tongue, and even if it turned to ash it would be worth it knowing they forgave her and she them.

 

_____

 

The world swirled again, and he cried out as he was yanked into it, his entire body heaved into the tumult.

 

Her mother pleading with her let it go. Let someone, perhaps  _ someones _ , go. Emma responded with a familiar chilling cold. 

 

“They have to pay for what they did.” 

 

A battle over before it even began, Emma against an army, bodies falling to her feet as she cut a swath of destruction against those who would threaten her home, her family. 

 

Years flickered past in rapid blinks, her family frightened and pleading with her, fear on their faces of the daughter they no longer knew. 

 

“Please don't leave me daddy,” whispered over a dying man, unrecognizable after time had ravaged him away. 

 

“I love you Emma,” pressed weakly with a kiss into her hair. “I will always love you.” 

 

The air was filled with grief and loss and Killian cried out again as it pressed around him. He had never known a father’s love, not really, but he knew it now.

 

A wedding in summer sun, her brother and his beautiful bride kissing happily under pure white arches of weaving flowers, Emma watching, hidden in the back of the large gathered crowd. Alone and crying for his happy day. 

 

“I can't lose you too,” whispered into the hair of a dying woman this time, still regal even in old age, a small smile pulling across thin lips.

 

“I'll see you again my love, I promise. We’ll always find each other. And I'll get to see your father again. It's alright sweetheart, let me go.” 

 

Her rage was a living breathing thing now, given life in terror and vengeance, dark punishments for wicked deeds, twisted justice for twisted acts. It soothed the edges of her grief, pushed down the parts of her that bled sorrow and strife, and brought forth the darkness stronger than ever before in the name of retribution.

 

Killian flinched as the faces flew past, so many lives, the debts of so many crimes and sins paid by her hand. She was darkness incarnate, feasting on blood and pain, sex and death, an angel of black justice, and he felt sick from the swirling chaos that flickered past, so much horror over so many years. 

 

Emma sobbing and crying over a letter, the words of her brother’s death written into the sky. 

 

An island haven. An abandoned castle in the middle of the sea, a self imposed exile, her penance for the pain she had caused. No blood for the darkness anymore, no more screams to feed it. 

 

A man on her shore with charming smiles and honey sweet words. “Walsh” echoing in the whirlpool of memory. Praising her beauty and graciousness. Promising her loyalty and love. Kissing her tenderly and vowing a lifetime. Then, later, holding her dagger and forcing her to her knees, controlling her with sneering lips. Making a mistake, and paying dearly for his betrayal.

 

“Never again,” Emma whispered to a room now empty of screams, now filled with blood, a body that was vaguely recognizable, a promise to herself broken but renewed once more. “Never again.”

 

A ship wrecked by a storm. Bodies littering her beach, unwelcome and unwanted, save for one man, not breathing, still and beautiful in moonlight, far too lovely to let die. The promise broken again. 

 

Her lips pressed to his and Killian woke with a gasp.

 

____

 

It was like watching him come back to life all over again, sputtering and choking, gasping great lungfuls of air. Instead of ocean water, his face was wet from tears, his lungs filled with grief instead of sea, just as starved and desperate.

 

“Shh, it’s okay. Killian,” Emma whispered, edging closer. His eyes were wild as he looked around the room, pressing into the wooden back of his chair, heels bearing into the floor. Emma hesitated, stepping back.

 

Perhaps this fear was from her. From what she was. He had, after all, seen the monster inside, the terrible things she had done, the lives she had taken and destroyed, and woken gasping and afraid. She edged away, letting him adjust, pulse heavy and drumming in her ears.

 

It took him another moment, disoriented and scared, still crying, agitatedly running his arm across his face to see. When he caught her gaze his expression was unreadable. Emma’s heart dropped. 

 

He lurched from the chair, toppling it back, and crossed the room in quick purposeful strides. He kissed her long and sweet, tasting of salt, dipping her backwards until her hands grasped unseeing at his shirt. He pulled back roughly, and kissed her cheek, her chin, her fluttering eyes, the smooth skin of her forehead, the tip of her nose. He buried his face in her neck and breathed long deep breaths. Emma could only stand there stunned, grasping his shirt with her fingernails, her chest filling with warm joy, dimmed only by disbelief.

 

“I won't,” he murmured into her neck, and then he was kissing her again, starting the path all over. Her ear, her cheeks again, the place where her lips met. “I won't.” 

 

She wanted to ask “Won’t what?” but she couldn't speak, could only let him press his lips to everything he could reach, struggling to stand. She wanted to collapse, to sink into him fully, her legs feeling rubbery and weak as his fingers twined in her hair, the back of his hook pressing her closer. She could still feel his tears falling on her neck, slipping down her collar. He was shaking against her, violent shudders that made her teeth chatter from the force of them. She needed to see, needed to know. 

 

“Look at me,” she whispered. “Please.” 

 

He drew back at once, steadying her on her feet, and looked at her plainly, boldly, his cheeks flushing only a little under the damp. His entire face was mottled, his eyes outlined in red but so very blue, and he stared her down, as if willing her to see. His eyes didn't flicker to his boots once.

 

Emma sucked in a breath. It shook and rattled against her lungs, burned against her throat.

 

“How?” She could barely get the question out around the knot that had formed in there.

 

“How what?” He pressed a thumb to her cheek, catching a tear, pressing it into her skin, trailing it along the bone, sweeping a tendril of hair behind her ear as he went, following its progress with soft bashful eyes.

 

“H-h-how can you still look at me like you love me?” The sob crested and broke, loud and echoing in the room, and she fell against him, clutching his shirt, pressing her nose into his collar.

 

“Because I do,” he whispered simply, his voice strong. Another sob choked forth, and she gasped against it, breath hiccuping. 

 

“I don't-” Emma shook her head against him. “I don't deserve it. Please. I don't. You can't.” 

 

His arms wrapped around her fully, a cheek pressed to the top of her hair, damp and warm. Everything between them stained in tears. 

 

“I do,” he repeated again. “I do.” 

 

“I killed them,” she said, her voice shaking, disbelieving. “All those people. You’ve  _ seen _ it now.”

 

He pulled back, pushed her hair back, taking careful time to separate the strands with hand and hook, pull them away from tear soaked skin. He thought a moment as his gaze traced the lines of her face, gathering his words. 

 

“Emma. I've watched men murder  _ dozens _ over nothing more than spices and silk, watched them slit a man’s throat to pry a single gold tooth from his mouth. I watched them butcher and maim for the pure sport of it. I’ve  _ seen  _ darkness, we are...intimately acquainted, I’ve  _ seen  _ death. The only thing I see when I look at you, is  _ you.  _ What I saw in there was...terrible, but there was always you.”

 

Emma swallowed around the sharp pain in her throat and pressed her face to his chest again. She had thought this would be easier, the weight lifted after he knew, after they were on more equal footing, when he had seen everything he needed to see. 

 

But it wasn't. It was worse. 

 

“ _ It’s not debts and payments owed with us” _ rang in her ears, him practically saying he loved her sang in her heart. It would be so much easier if he behaved like she thought he would. So much easier if he hated her, feared her, anything but shining, bright, unwavering love. Her chest was warm and filled with sun, but her head was aching heavy gray.

 

_ Go ahead,  _ the darkness whispered.  _ Tell him. He’ll understand. Look at him.  _

 

She closed her eyes. Shook her head slightly. She couldn't tell anymore what she should and should not do. If it was what the darkness wanted or what she wanted. If it was right or wrong. Everything had gotten warped and twisted, centuries of battling, waging war against herself, and she just didn't  _ know _ anymore. A constant tiptoeing tightrope walk between playing right into the hands of conniving evil, or giving into human desires, dancing in midair on the line, ready to plummet.

 

Killian's hand was soft in her hair, so steady and calm and he didn't look at her as if he expected a reply, as if he needed her to say it. He just gave, and expected nothing in return, so happy and shy, even tear soaked and shaking, just gentle heat and light. No debts or payments owed, that was who he was. 

 

_ Dark One lies, Dark One tricks.  _

 

Is that who she was? Or was she, like he’d said, underneath it all, Emma. Always her. Even in the worst moments, the most vicious and cruel, always Emma. Was it Emma who wanted blood and tears and cold retribution? Was it Emma who struck down armies, who laid waste to those who dared threaten her family, and brought delightful destruction down like gifts from the heavens?

 

Emma pressed her face into him and breathed. She didn't know. She didn't know if being Emma was better or worse. 

 

_____

 

Telling her he loved her had been as easy as breathing. Like everything in his life so far, it just was, nothing would change it. It was as inescapable as the tide, pulling him along with the current. There was no poetry in the declaration, all his imagined impassioned speeches, filled with flowery language and well crafted words had fallen before a simple factual statement. 

 

Emma was a fighter though, and she would not give in so easily, this he knew as well, and it didn't bother him in the slightest. He understood her fear, her own version of cowardice. He allowed the world to sweep him along, from grifting and stealing on the streets with his father, to toiling on the sea, to navigating a life of piracy with one less limb and far less confidence, he just took things as they were knowing he was powerless to change them, there was no use in trying. Emma, however, fought against it with everything she had, kicked and swam against it, denied the truths before her with a single minded vehemence. 

 

She showed him in her own way though, and he had always valued actions over empty hollow words. People could say all manner of lovely things while they ground you into the muck, it's what they did that mattered. It had been one of his life lines, a simple phrase from his book repeating in times of struggle.

 

_ Words empty as the wind are best left unsaid. _

 

He would wait a thousand years to hear her lips speak the words if she continued to stroke his hair as he drifted into sated boneless sleep. Would wait an eternity if he could wake to find her small smile in the mornings, watch the sunrise with her surrounded by lush green nature raised by her hands, their hands, the scent of soil and roses filling his nose. 

 

She said it as she lingered over breakfast, remembering the things he liked and helping him discover new ones. As she worked with him to figure out the complicated figures and charts, her brows pinched in confusion, her pink mouth frowning in distaste but trying anyway. She whispered it quietly in hot steaming baths, her hands moving over his body in soapy swirls, leaving him gasping and panting in hot soaking bliss. 

 

The words were in the clang of steel on steel as she corrected his footwork or praised his form. They were murmured in the quiet afternoons they spent along the beach, toes curled in the sand and sea breeze in their hair. But mostly she told him by staying above, with him, day after day since, the men below left to their own devices, fed and given water, but no more of her attention than that. That she stayed with him in the daylight was the loudest declaration of all. 

 

“You aren't going to hurt me,” she said, breaking into his thoughts, exasperated. “I'm  _ immortal, _ remember?”

 

Killian lowered his sword and wiped his brow, breathing heavily. They had been practicing for hours, the thin sheen of sweat covering them both, his muscles burning pleasantly from an altogether different kind of exertion, Emma rosy and shining and gorgeous before him, rolling her eyes. 

 

“I know but I-” he shook his head. “I just...can't?”

 

“You keep holding back,” Emma accused. “And you can't get better if you hold back.” 

 

The sardonic rise of his eyebrow and tilt of his head was slight, his lips curling at the corner, but she caught the movement anyway and flushed, distracting herself with her sword. Killian sighed.

 

“I can't do it,” he said. “Not when it's you.”

 

“That's ridiculous, I'm not some delicate flower,” she raised her sword.

 

“Oh trust me, love, I know. It's just it's-” he gestured at her uselessly with his. “You.” 

 

She paused considering. 

 

“What if it wasn't?”

 

“Pardon?” Killian looked at her confused. 

 

“What if it wasn't me you were fighting?” She stepped closer to him. “But someone else?”

 

“Like who?” The thought of her getting one of the men from the dungeons had his heart thudding in his chest, suddenly the sweat on his brow felt cool and sickly. He rubbed the back of hand on his pants. 

 

“Someone you hated,” she said. 

 

His heart picked up speed. Even in their no doubt lessened conditions the thought of facing one of them filled him with dread. He never wanted to even see them again, much less try to remember footwork and attacks while they taunted and mocked him for even attempting such a thing. His sword tremored in his hand.

 

“Hey,” she whispered, stroking down his face. “It would still be  _ me _ just...glamored. Made to appear like I'm someone else.” 

 

“Oh,” he breathed out in relief. “I thought you meant-”

 

“It wouldn't matter if I did,” Emma said insistently. “I don't think you realize how good you’ve gotten.”

 

“I have?” The men in the dungeon below were forgotten, pride filling his chest. 

 

“Oh yes,” she pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “You’re a natural.” He tried not to puff too much at the compliment, knowing it wasn't exactly true. There was nothing natural about it, but he  _ had _ practiced every day and he was glad it was paying off. 

 

“But you’re also holding back.” She said and stepped away.

 

“So you would just...magic yourself to look like someone?” He asked.

 

“Yes. When I was-” she swallowed. “When I was apprenticed to Rumplestiltskin he would do that, make himself appear like other people to scare me, make me use my magic. His methods were...cruel. But this is completely up to you Killian, no surprises, I just think it would help you to let go a bit, really give it your all.” She made a little jabbing motion with her sword that made him smile, looking away. 

 

He bit his lip thinking it over. It was true he was holding back, striking at Emma in earnest held no appeal for him, even though logically he knew it wouldn't do anything if he did make a mistake. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. But the thought of her transforming, becoming someone else was unsettling to say the least. On the other hand, he also desperately wanted to get better. He was a natural she’d said, and he was starting to feel almost  _ good _ about his progress so far. 

 

“Who would you be?” he asked.

 

“I was thinking-” she looked away, and then back again, meeting his eyes. “Your Captain. Blackbeard.” 

 

Just the thought of the man made his heart freeze. He may be dead and gone but the memory of him, merciless cruelty, the flash of crystal in the sun, the apathetic pronouncement that would change the course of Killian’s life, was forever. He could tell by her face he hadn't hidden his reaction well, she shook her head quickly. 

 

“Nevermind, we can just try again,” she said, giving him a heartbreakingly encouraging smile as she backed away, and raised her sword, getting into stance.

 

Killian didn't follow, closing his eyes.

 

“Do it,” he said hoarsely.

 

“Killian,” Emma whispered. 

 

“Do it,” he repeated. He opened his eyes, looked at her fully. “I-I want you to.” 

 

Emma swallowed, searched his face. He could feel her eyes even from across the room, and she nodded. 

 

The glamour trickled over her like water, growing and changing, silver strands traded for stringy black ringlets, her beautiful face suddenly aged and cruel and terrifyingly familiar. It made him gasp and he backed up a step involuntarily, the effect of seeing the woman he loved suddenly transformed into the man he loathed had prickling anxiety skating along his spine.

 

Killian swallowed, his grip on the sword tightening. He could barely breathe, something tight and hard in his chest blocking his lungs suddenly, a weight heavy and thick pressing down. 

 

There was a kindness on the face that had never been present on Blackbeard’s own however, in all the years Killian had known him never had so soft an expression crossed the man's countenance, not for anyone. But when the figure’s mouth opened it was Blackbeard’s voice that came out.

 

“Now, wouldn't you rather fight a man than some silly wench? Hook?”

 

Killian’s chest squeezed tighter and he raised his sword, his hand trembling. He closed his eyes for a moment, took in a shuddering breath, and then attacked. Tentatively at first, hesitant and unsure, he knew it was Emma in there. The vision of Blackbeard sneered a familiar mocking grin, one that had been the start of so many terrible things, and Killian pressed closer.

 

With each stroke, he felt anger climbing, his brain all buzzing confused havoc. It started as a low flame, a guttering flickering candle low in his belly, that grew and strengthened with each moment, the fire rising. 

 

“Is that the best you can do?” The specter taunted. 

 

Each ring of metal was replaced in his ears with the crack of braided leather, the sound of splitting skin, _his_ _skin_ , caught underneath lashing blows, harsh laughter bellowed above him as blood ran in rivulets down his back. 

 

His feet, their careful footwork, the calculated back and forth rhythm he had practiced over and over, were now a reminder of scrambling clumsy attempts to please, his head perpetually bowed, tripping over himself as frantic supplication fell from his lips. 

 

He heard false kind words, always spoken in jest, withdrawn with laughing jeers, always to be followed by sharp cuffs about the ears, booted kicks, or cruel punishments. He lashed out at each with a sharply swinging sword, the blade arcing as the ghost met him blow for blow.

 

_ Useless. Wretched. Whoreson.  _

 

He was without form or structure any longer, all his carefully practiced movements, his planned and coordinated gestures lost as he attacked with earnest ferocity. Rage spilled over, coated him from head to toe in hot fire, the rasp of metal as the blades slid across one other. 

 

Killian pressed closer, taking every advantage. He could feel the pull of his lips across his teeth, the snarling ferocity over every meal he had missed, his stomach twisting from hunger, every moment he had spent in that dark brig at this man’s command, terrified and alone, every terrible order for the crew to do as they wished with him, fulfilled with unabashed glee, they all came forth, reminding him of decades of torment  in the vibrations up his arm, the burn of his muscles as he fought.

 

He was crying again, but he could barely feel it, anger unlike any he had ever known made him numb save for scorching fevered fury. He watched as the man’s face twisted in fear, concern, exertion, his defenses growing weaker as he backed away, his feet unsteady beneath him. Losing. Killian  _ delighted _ in it, harsh and cruel and wicked. Killian pressed further forward, heaving grunts leaving him with every stroke, choked in his throat with leaden tears, almost keening cries of furious anguish spilling forth against his will.

 

The man lashed out with his sword once more and Killian caught it with his hook, the metal hissing as he deftly twisted his wrist. The sword flew from the man’s grip, flying across the room with a clatter Killian barely heard over the blood pulsing in his ears. He kicked out with his leg, wrapping his calf around a booted ankle and yanked, sending the man to the ground on his back with new ferocity.

 

Killian stepped forward, looked down at his opponent, eyes wild, and leveled his sword, pressed his tip to a bloated wrinkled neck, a noise of desperate triumph leaving him through clenched teeth.

 

“Not so useless now,” he hissed out, his voice strained and laden with tears. He pressed the tip closer, a small bead of blood appearing beneath it. 

 

The form of Blackbeard shifted and changed, silver hair spread across the stone, a smooth graceful throat beneath the tip of his sword, the wound healing over instantly.

 

“No,” Emma whispered. “Not useless at all.” 

 

Killian blanched at the sight of her and drew back, his chest heaving, skittering backwards. She made a noise of protest as he turned away from her, unable to look at her face at that moment. Cold shame doused some of the flames, his breath choked panicked pants. He wiped his sleeve across his face, catching tears and sweat. Embarrassed and shaking, he couldn't bear to face her. 

 

“Killian,” Emma said, her voice so concerned it broke something inside of him. He heard her step towards him.

 

“A moment, love,” he flashed her a quick pained smile, a quick flicker of eyes, and backed away further.

 

“Okay,” she whispered and stepped back. 

 

His limbs trembled and shook, and he dropped the sword, his hand shaking too much to hold it any longer. The racket it made was too loud in the quiet room, his harsh rasping breaths the only other noise and he flinched. He tried to calm himself, hold himself still, but his body wouldn't cooperate, his lungs refused to slow.

 

“My apologies,” he gasped finally. “I wasn't thinking clearly.” 

 

“No, no, it's fine,” Emma stepped to him again. “That was amazing.” 

 

“Amazing?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I almost-” he bit off the words. He knew logically he hadn't almost killed her. She was immortal as she said, invulnerable, the small wound healing immediately but that didn't make it better. Not really. He had lost control, let the memories he had clamped down overwhelm him, had let himself give into the anger. It was a wholly unfamiliar feeling, disconcerting and frightening. 

 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” Emma reminded him gently. “You won.” 

 

“I won,” he repeated dully to the floor.

 

“Fair and square,” she said. “That move with the hook was pretty impressive.” He could hear the wry flirtation in her tone, her attempt at lightening the atmosphere, soothing him in her own way, and he smiled, so very grateful for it. For her. 

 

“It was, wasn't it?”  he looked over at her then, his lips curling. 

 

“Inspired,” she murmured drawing closer. “I'm sorry he hurt you.” She whispered. 

 

Killian took in a sharp breath, hitched his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. 

 

“He’s gone now,” he said. “Good riddance.” 

 

“Killian,” Emma said. “What he did-the things he did to you I-”

 

Killian cut her off feeling rude and wrong for daring to interrupt her but he didn't want to talk about this, didn't want to think about it any longer. His self preservation overriding everything else. He shifted on his feet, wanting to move, to run, to do  _ something.  _

 

“Are in the past, where they belong,” he said quickly and turned. He reached out, pulling her against him, apologizing with a hand down her hair, moving down her back, luxuriating in her soft solidness. Despite the gentle caress a restless energy was stealing over him, something undefinable and unrelenting, it made his bones feel electric, his entire being humming with uncomfortable tightness. She relented, somewhat reluctantly, fitting into his arms.

 

“But I-” she tried to speak again, her voice tremoring. “I need to-” 

 

Killian ducked his head, kissing her roughly, silencing her with his mouth, not wanting to hear anymore. Refusing to think on this any longer. He couldn't. He didn't want to. He would go insane with this sudden prickling heat, like fire ants crawling along his skin, everything too tight, too much, feeling like he wanted to rip the world to shreds. 

 

Emma gasped in surprise against him, and he felt sorry for it, but he couldn't seem to help himself. He didn't feel completely in control anymore, his lips moving across hers with mindless purpose, his tongue licking the seam, opening her up, drinking her in. He needed something he couldn't quite define, his body taut and tense. So he followed its direction, dipping her back to lick into her mouth, his hand moving along her body, upwards, feeling the thin contours of her waist, the swell of her breast, grasping her rough and needy.

 

“It doesn't matter,” he murmured against her lips.”I just want to go to bed. With you. Can you do the smoke... thing?” He kissed her again, pulled her lips apart with gentle teeth, stroked against her tongue in long languid pulls until she moaned, an altogether different thrill pulling in his belly, pushing memory away, his thumb brushing across the tightened peak of her breast. 

 

The smell of sweet smoke filled the air, but he barely registered it, moving across her jaw, slipping into the sweet curve of her neck, dragging his teeth along the skin. The sensation of falling slipped along his shoulders, and then they were in their room again, he could smell the roses in the air, feel the quiet warmth around him. 

 

Emma pulled back, and looked at him. The Gods only knew what she saw there, his face was no doubt mottled and red, his eyes swollen from tears, twisted in lust and anger. She pressed a hand to his cheek, a slow stroke.

 

“Killian,” she whispered. But he shook his head again. 

 

“Clothes,” he bit out, the light order feeling wrong on his tongue, but she nodded, her eyebrows pinched for a moment before she nodded again, more to herself than anything. 

 

Sudden cool air drifted across his skin, and she was naked and ethereal before him. Silver curls trailing across her shoulders, her neck pink from his beard and teeth, her lips swollen. She looked divine. 

 

Killian grabbed her to him and kissed her again ignoring the flicker of worry on her face, the gentle concern. He didn't want it, he only wanted this, he needed  _ this.  _ He knew he was behaving badly, abominably even, but he couldn't check himself, he just wanted.

 

He pressed her back, walking her backwards to the bed, her palms resting on his chest, delicious and warm. All that smooth skin, cooling the fire, lighting a new one. Her legs met the mattress and she pressed back against him. 

 

“Killian,” she said. “I need to-” she repeated her words from the study.

 

“Please?” He hated interrupting her again. It was wrong, unnatural, but he felt like he was going to rip apart if he didn't do  _ something _ .

 

“Okay, later though?” she said and he nodded quickly, dipping her back. His lips moved across her mouth. 

 

“Later.”

 

____

 

Emma wanted to tell him, that she understood his pain, his anger, knew the reason for his reaction, or one of them at least, the rest written in the scars on his back, his skittish reactions to the world. She wanted to spill it all, darkness be damned, consequences be damned. But he looked so desperate, so frantic, she could only let him sweep her into his arms, press his mouth to hers. 

 

Maybe it was better this way, she reasoned, he was on edge, mindless with emotion, desperate for escape. It wouldn't help him to make it worse. It was a weak justification but it felt right, felt like what she should do. She understood this, all too well. Perhaps it was time for her to listen.

 

She exacted a promise from his lips, “Later” ringing sure and true, and let him push her down to the bed. His weight was delicious on top of her, banishing the guilt as he leaned over, overwhelming her with heated skin and his mouth hot and wet against her neck. He had learned so much in their time together, had filed all her reactions away in his amazing mind, ready to recall at an instant. He knew how sensitive her ears where, and he licked them now following the whorls with the tip of his tongue, his breath whispering across and sending a shiver of want straight between her legs. 

 

He was moving so quickly, his usual slow and deliberate movements, normally so hesitant and careful, were all fast friction now. He nipped at her neck, slid his chest across her own, the hair there rasping across her nipples, making her arch to feel it again. Her legs opened automatically, cradling him between her thighs, still half hanging off the bed. 

 

It was incredible to be boxed in by his arms, to feel him everywhere, closing her in, wrapping her up. The back of his hook tracing cool strokes down her side, his hand questing and searching, drawing across her skin. She followed each, shifting into him, wanting to feel him everywhere.

 

He murmured against her, nonsense words and adjectives that burned into her, and he trailed his mouth down, whisper light across her collar. She writhed against him, already feeling slick and ready, wanting to feel him, she shifted down to brush against his hardness. He backed away though, his feet still planted on the floor, and slid lower to close his mouth around a tight peak, sucking briefly and letting it go with a soft pop, cold air rushing in to replace the heat. Emma jerked at the sensation, wanting  _ more.  _

 

She grasped his head to pull him back but he was kissing across her breasts, moving to the other, his tongue curling around taut pink skin, wrapping around her and pulling back, quick and light flicks following after and she just held him there. She clenched her teeth, buried her fingers in his hair and let him do as he pleased. 

 

Despite his urgency there was a deliberation to his movements, all of them made with her in mind, and she basked in it, her chest filling with a different sort of warmth at his selflessness. This should be about him, about what he needed, but he had always been clear that what he needed was  _ her,  _ what he wanted was to please  _ her,  _ and this was no exception, no matter how little she deserved it. 

 

He kissed back across her chest, an open mouth pressed to the space between, and moved down, open mouthed kisses trailing across the line of her belly, little hints of tongue, his hand and hook brushing her sides making her squirm as fire licked down her spine, went straight to her center and  _ throbbed _ .

 

Killian’s tongue traced around her navel, and lower still,  dipping into the crease between her hips, a kiss pressed to the sharp bone there, beard brushing against her thighs.

 

He was kneeling now, his legs angled against the bed, hook and hand wrapping around her knees, pulling her down, silk rubbing against her back as she slid lower. Emma swallowed, anticipation making her pulse race faster and she felt his breath on her, his hand gripping her thigh, kneading the flesh before his fingers danced light along the skin. 

 

He parted her easily, ran his fingers down the seam of her, murmured something dirty against her thigh that she couldn't hear over the air pulling into her lungs. He found slick soft flesh, and pressed against it with his fingers, little circles making her hips jerk upwards as voluptuous pleasure settled into her bones. They dipped lower, slipped inside, replaced on her center with his mouth, and Emma bit out a little noise as he moved them, long dragging strokes, following the movement with deep laves of his tongue. 

 

She was never prepared for this. Every time after the first was more and more, a skill that came less from practice and more from utterly pure enjoyment. He  _ loved  _ it, his moans always greedy and yearning against her, tasting her with dark ferocity, his pleasure in the task more erotic than anything she had ever experienced. He took her apart piece by piece, lick by lick, lips moving fluidly across her, sucking and brushing and closing around her, drinking her in, consuming her until there was nothing but his mouth and pulsing wet skin, pinpricks of sensation at her center.

 

He moaned again, opening wide, licking long and rough, finding a cadence that matched her heartbeat, fingers pulling back and pressing into her, moving in time with his tongue, until her entire body drummed with every deliberate beat. 

 

Her nails dug into his scalp, tugged at his hair, her legs moving restlessly against his head. He groaned as if she was touching him intimately, pressing forward, seeking friction of his own. She wanted to pull him up, practically feral with the need to feel him inside her, but before she could she broke suddenly, hot tendrils licking across her limbs, cresting over her in a fast rush of surprise sensation. She tensed and bucked against his mouth, her cry echoing off the walls, and he slowed his pace, drinking her in, his tongue soft and slick and tasting. He wiped his lips along her thigh when she sank down, beard rough, she could feel the curl of his smile wicked against her leg, followed by sweet tender kisses that made her heart clench.

 

“Killian,” tore from her throat, the need to feel him overwhelming. He stood again, braced his knees on the bed and pressed into the space between her legs, still tingling and clenching, her hips rising up to brush against velvet hardness, mouth searching for his. 

 

His answered her with a searing kiss, and she tasted herself on his tongue, his lips just as urgent and desperate as she felt. She needed more than that. Emma reached between them, felt him hot and heavy in her hand and he groaned, pulling back to press his face against her neck as she stroked, soft skin sliding along rigid hardness, pulling him into her, wanting to feel him completely.

 

He rose up to press forward, agonizingly slow, trembling and sweat slick above her, his head tilted down to watch as she took him in, raising her hips, grinding down as much as she was able, but he moved at his own pace, that incredible noise caught in his throat as he settled into her fully, her favorite noise in the universe. 

 

“Gods,” he rasped out, his face falling down again, a curse brushed across her neck, his weight heavy and incredible on top of her.  How she had wanted this. A beautiful blanket of heat and fullness, pulsing across her skin. She shifted her hips, needing him to  _ move _ , to feel that primal drag and push within her. He took another moment, driving in further, sinking in completely, and leaned back, slightly pulling out with a choked whine. 

 

Emma’s head fell back, it was an entirely new sensation, a different angle completely, and she reveled in it, feeling him move forward again. 

 

“Yes, please,” she gasped out. He repeated the movement, a slow and steady drag back, that had her rocking up against him as he pressed back forward. She reached up, hand against his cheek, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, jaw ticking and fluttering against her palm. He was beautiful, barely holding himself together, breathing harsh and stilted. 

 

She let him take control, gave herself over completely, letting him set the rhythm. It was what he needed, what she wanted, all that lovely friction. Each delicious grunt, every glorious noise he made, sent electric heat down her spine. He listened to her carefully, eyes intent on her face, shifting himself until each thrust and pull brushed against already aching flesh, angled himself to catch her with each movement. 

 

His arms were shaking, sweat beading his brow, her own skin slick with it as he moved across her. So much amazing tension, building and building between them. Her name broke across his lips in a mindless litany, as he moved, faster and faster, hitting her perfectly with every desperate roll, and she could barely catch her breath, hitching and clawing at her chest with each sharp jolt of skin on skin. She broke again, stronger this time, filled with him. Sweet torment had her body clenching hard around him, straining against the delicious pressure on her spine, until he too was crying out, burying himself deep, an almost pained sob tearing out with the force of his own release.

 

He fell against her, breath hot across her chest, panting. She could barely move for a moment, lifting her arms to drape lazily across his back, soothing strokes down his spine that made him jerk and shudder, holding him in place, not wanting him to move.

 

He whispered something against her chest, too quiet for her to hear over the harsh sounds of their shared breathing, the pounding of her heart, but it sounded a lot like “I love you.” and she gripped him tighter. 

 

“I think-” she whispered back. “I’d like to go to sleep?”

 

He raised his head.

 

“But I thought-” he was still breathing heavy, his breath warm and sweet across her chest. She smiled down at him.

 

“I don't  _ have  _ to,” she said, softly, still stroking down his spine. “But I think I want to? With you.”

 

The smile that broke across his face was the same as if she had made some ardent declaration, his eyes crinkling, his teeth white in the dark. It was glorious and beautiful and all for her. She brought her hand forward, ran her fingers across his lips, smiling back. His smile dropped suddenly against the tips, his eyes intense.

 

Her body protested as he carefully shifted off her, so gentle and timid, moving to what had become his side of the bed.

 

Emma moved in closer, suddenly cold from the lack him, and was surprised when he continued his progress, rising from the bed completely.

 

“I don't want to hurt you,” he said. She blinked up at him in confusion.

 

“What?” She sat up. “How could you possibly?” 

 

Killian raised his hook slightly and it glinted in the glow from the candles. 

 

“I've been in here while you were asleep before? I stay with you every night?” She frowned, still confused.

 

“I know, and I'm bloody grateful for that, but you’re... awake then and if I startle or have an...incident you can avoid it. If you’re asleep as well…” he let the thought trail off.

 

“You won't,” Emma said firmly and moved the covers aside. “Come back to bed.”

 

He shook his head hesitantly, unsure, and instead reached up, his hand workings at the buckle of his brace, the leather that held it securely across his shoulder and chest. Her mouth dropped open in surprise, guilt lashing like a whip across her shoulders.

 

“Killian you don't have to,” she insisted softly realizing his intent. “You can't hurt me, I keep telling you that.” 

 

The buckles seemed difficult to unfasten, the angle awkward, and he struggled to undo them. It was no wonder he never took it off, preferring to wash under the leather straps rather than remove them completely. Getting it on and off must be exceedingly difficult even without his fear of removal. Her chest was tight and warm as she watched him struggle, but her throat was hot. She reached for him, wanting to stop him.

 

“ _ I _ want to,” he said firmly, echoing his earlier words. It was the same expression as the study, the same fierce determination, scared, terrified even, but still wanting to please, to do what he thought he needed to. It wasn't debts and payments owed but it was a gift, given for having received. Her eyes burned. 

 

“Then come here, and let me help you,” the command was softly spoken, not wanting to argue with him, knowing this was important, the air heavy with just how much. Later seemed so far away now, and she wished he wasn't doing this first, that she had told him  _ first _ . But it was too late, he was giving this piece of himself over to her. She  _ had _ to take it. She wanted it. Selfish as that was, she wanted it desperately. 

 

He hesitated a moment before coming back to the bed, kneeling across it gingerly, offering his shoulder. 

 

Her fingers swept down the lines, the callused skin, the faint hint of red at the edges, and he trembled beneath her touch, his breathing shallow and strained with anxiety. 

 

Emma made a quiet soothing noise as she worked him free, the metal closures stiff from disuse, the leather hard from water and wear. It took her a minute but when they were all loosened he seemed to let out a breath as the leather slackened around him, unbound, his entire frame slackening as well. Free once more. Tears stung as she watched him just breathe for a moment, frozen, the leather dangling across the muscles of his chest.

 

She smoothed her palms across the reddened skin underneath, carefully pulling the straps away, working down his arm until she got to the brace. His hand on her own stopped her before she could reach it. 

 

“It’s-” his voice was hoarse, struggling for the words. “Not pretty.” He said finally.

 

She didn't reply, just moved down, sliding the cuff off with gentle reverent delicacy. There were straps here too, unnecessary if the ones above were loosened, that allowed him to remove the cuff separately if he wished. Underneath was black cloth, a soft scarf wrapped around the blunted end of his arm, protecting the flesh. 

 

“We can leave this on?” Emma murmured, giving him an out. He reached over wordlessly, picking up a compressed fold and lifting it away. Her heart clenched tightly. 

 

Killian moved his wrist closer, prompting her to continue and she took over then, unwrapping the rest, the skin paler here from being hidden away, scars twisting over the end. She had expected something smoother, but it was clear the recovery had been a difficult one. She felt the tears spill over looking at it, remembering his screams of terror, the drag of his feet on the deck. She couldn't.

 

“I told you,” he breathed. “Not pretty.” 

 

“No,” she stammered out, anxiety rising. “It's not.” She tried to collect herself. 

 

“But it tells a story.” Her fingers ran along one of the threading scars, and he shuddered, his arm tensing, trying to draw back, but she held firm.

 

“This one tells me how brave you were.” She whispered, moving her fingers to another. “How strong.” She moved down, drifting across the skin as he shook, his breath hitching. “How scared and alone you were.” She leaned over, pressing a kiss to each one in turn. “And how much you’ve survived.” She took in a breath. “It's a pretty epic tale Killian. One worthy of your book.” 

 

“Perhaps, I'll tell it to you one day,” his voice was choked, his voice thick with emotions and unshed tears of his own. So many tears today. She shook her head willing him to see what she was saying. What she was trying to say. 

 

“You don't have to. I already know.” 

 

Emma waited, her breath held, and looked up hesitantly, expecting censure in his eyes, anger, realization. But he just smiled at her, a small shaky thing, his eyes rimmed red.

 

Emma’s heart plummeted. 

 

He was so trusting, so innocent, not a hint of suspicion at her words, taking them at face value, too overcome by everything that had happened to really even hear the seriousness behind them, their significance. Any other person might have questioned her, put the pieces together, been suspicious. Not Killian. Never Killian. She should have known. Shouldn't have expected it would it would be that easy. She opened her mouth. 

 

“Come love, let’s go to bed,” he murmured before she could continue, explain further, and he pulled her back, reaching over to take the contraption from numb fingers, laying it along the bedside table. “You’ve already waited a lifetime.” 

 

Emma swallowed to herself as she followed him down to the warm pillows and soft silk of their bed. She had tried to take the coward’s way out and now she was paying for it. He settled her into his arms, his lips warm at her temple. She wanted to scream. 

 

Such an exquisite act of trust, all the emotions of the day, it was so much. He had done so much. She closed her eyes, a tear falling from the corner as Killian shifted her further into his arms. She didn't deserve any of this. She didn't deserve him. She was weak, a coward, when he had been so brave for her. 

 

“Killian-” she lifted a bit, and he smiled down at her, so soft, vulnerable and beautiful. 

 

_ Go ahead dearie. The timing is exquisite,  _ darkness grinned against her throat, teeth bared, and then it laughed, the sound echoing in the chambers of her mind. 

 

She couldn't.

 

“Goodnight.” 

 

____

 

_ “I thought I heard the Old Man say _ __  
_ you can go ashore and take your pay.” _ __  
  


_ “Oh her stern was foul and the voyage was long. The winds was bad and the gales was strong.”  _

 

The song was lilting and sweet in her ear, delivered in a gentle croon, pressed into her neck, hot breath and the scratch of his beard. She shifted into him, chasing heat, felt herself sinking into the viscous warmth of him, like sun warmed honey. 

 

_ “And we'll leave her tight and we'll leave her trim and heave the hungry packet in.” _

 

_ “Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her with a grin. For there's many a worser we've sailed in.” _

 

His eyes were the blue of the sea after a storm, dark and hot above her, his smile wide, teeth white against his swarthy sun kissed skin, the dark of the hair on his jaw. He looked like a bashful fairy, come to steal her away, a changeling with playful eyes. Emma couldn't speak for a moment, just lifted her arms around him, solid and sure, cradling her gently. 

 

“Don't leave me,” she whispered against his neck.

 

He loomed above her, kissed her brow, drifted soft lips along her cheeks, and murmured darkly into her ear.

 

_ “And now it's time to say goodbye. For the old pierhead's a-drawing nigh.”  _

 

Emma blinked awake, the melody fading, giving way to her startled thudding heart, the soft even breaths of the man behind her, stirring tendrils of hair along her neck, ghosting across her cheeks.

 

She had expected nightmares. There were always nightmares. Brutal things filled with blood and creeping darkness, the faces of those she’d lost. She had expected them, but not like this. She would have preferred the other to his face, his eyes, and the crushing guilt. She pulled his arm closer around her, shifted back against him as if she could crawl inside. 

 

He startled at the movement, tensing alert, moving to jerk away from habit. She felt him relax in fractions, breathing her in, long pulls against her hair, and his lips against her spine. 

 

“Did you sleep well?” He asked groggily, another kiss pressed to the shell of her ear. 

 

“No, but waking up is nice,” she said honestly. She shifted back against him, wanting to feel him, restless nerves making her skin spark.

 

“Very,” his voice was full of apologies and a low groan as she pressed back into morning hardness, smooth and firm against her bottom. “Sunrise soon.” 

 

“Yes,” she pushed back again. “But maybe you can just describe it to me?” Her voice was playful but edged in anxiety, and she swallowed it down, trying to focus on the feel of him. Killian pressed another kiss to her back.

 

“Are you alright?” He whispered.

 

“Just bad dreams,” she said dismissively. “Distract me, tell me about the sunrise.” 

 

He hesitated, and she could almost see his pinched brow, his eyes filled with concern. She didn't want to look at him, she reached behind her instead, took his hand in her own and pulled it under her arm, brushing it across her breast, the tightening tip. 

 

“O-Oh,” she bit her lips against the smile at his realization. “Um, well-” he stroked down, the edge of his palm catching against the peak, a gentle caress as he shifted. 

 

“The horizon looks like burnished gold,” he said finally. “A thin band of it all across the sea.” His fingers played idly against her, gently brushing where her skin tightened,  her heartbeat picking up as soft tendrils of pleasure sank into her skin. 

 

His hand brushed lower, down the plane of her stomach, drifting briefly to her waist, over her hip before coming back to center. She tilted them up, making it easier for him, his finger slipping softly between the gentle crease.

 

“Above that it's lighter, soft orange and pinks like water colors, all sort of, blending together,” his breathing was strained as he continued, the tone of a man of altered concentration, gathering slickness and drawing his fingers idly over sensitive flesh. 

 

“And above that?” Emma asked breathlessly. She could still hear the cadence of that terrible song, echoing softly. She needed more, different words to fill her head.

 

“Half light,” he breathed against her shoulder, rocking lightly against her, his length pressing against soft skin, his breath hitching. “Violets and blues, fading stars.” 

 

“Hmm,” his fingers picked up speed, a delicate maddening rhythm of slow luxurious strokes right where she was already pulsing. “It sounds beautiful.” 

 

He didn't reply, just continued his slow meandering torture, light grazes across and then firmer presses of pressure from the very tips of his fingers. 

 

Emma shifted, lifting her leg, pulling it across his own, an invitation. He hesitated, unsure, his hand stilling, making the low flickering flame ignite in fervent need at the loss. She reached back as best she could, the angle awkward, grasping the hot length of him and guiding him in. He seemed to understand then, shifting her up slightly, himself down.

 

“W-what else,” she wanted to cry, feeling strung out and desperate, for him, the distraction, it didn't matter. He didn't answer, grunting involuntarily as he slipped inside wet clenching heat, letting out a shaky moaning breath.

 

“Gods,” he murmured. “So tight.” 

 

Emma nodded frantically, pushing back, delighting in the delicious fullness. 

 

“What else,” she gasped out as he drove forward, a slow lazy stroke, no leverage between them making it difficult but no less perfect. Her legs clenched together, seeking friction. He gasped as she tightened further around him with the movement, and she squeezed tighter in response. 

 

“Uh, um,” he pressed his face to the back of her neck and shook his head, humid pants against her hair. “Fuck, clouds, pale blue and-” he rocked into her again and breathed out. “-lavender.” 

 

He slid his arm across her, fingers slipping between her folds and Emma could only gasp out a choked “Yes” as he resumed, playing against her. 

 

“The sun climbing over the-” he moaned again, as she rocked back to meet his drive forward. “-w-water. Emma I can't-” he pressed his face against her. “-keep talking about the _bloody_ _sun_.” He ground out, and she wanted to laugh but it hitched in her throat as he moved faster, lost to the tension coiling between her legs, his fingers slick, the angle hitting her somewhere new, perfect, dragging against her as he pulled back, pressing into that delightful new spot each time he rolled his hips forward. 

 

Her release was a slow wave of pleasure, breaking and swallowing her whole with a soft intensity that stole the air from her lungs, her mouth opening into a silent strained scream. Killian pressed his face hard into her back, gripping her tightly as the clenching throbbing heat of it sent him over the edge as well, a curse whined into her skin, his entire body drawn taut. 

 

They sank down, limbs relaxing together, gasping for air. 

 

Emma shifted back. 

 

“I think that was the best sunrise I've ever seen,” she said playfully. And he huffed a laugh, burying his face between her shoulder and the pillow. 

 

But despite the buzzing pleasure soaking into her bones, her heart feeling warm and full, she could still hear the echo of his voice, an ominous melody whispering across her mind.

 

_ “And now it's time to say goodbye. For the old pierhead's a-drawing nigh.”  _

 

___

 

The little plant was bigger, Killian was sure of it, and that made him grin as he tipped more water into its bed, bent down low to whisper good mornings.

 

“Are you talking to your plant?” Emma asked, peeking over at him from the orchids. 

 

He blushed. 

 

“Just exchanging pleasantries,” he murmured. And moved on down the row.

 

“I do that too,” she confessed, inspecting a petal of the beautiful exotic flower. “I didn't have anyone else to talk to for the longest time.” 

 

His heart stuttered in his chest. He wanted to tell her that was no longer a concern, she could tell him anything, everything, could talk until there no words left in the world. He doubted he could ever tire of hearing her speak. 

 

“I think they like it,” he said instead, swallowing. 

 

“I read somewhere it helps them grow,” she walked back to him.

 

“Like people.” 

 

“Exactly,” her smile was sunny at his understanding. “Now,” she brushed her hands off. “Early lesson before breakfast?” 

 

He turned to her, flushing as she pressed into the cradle of his hips, her arms snaking around his neck. He bit his lip, hiding his grin as he looked at his feet. These were his favorite moments, Emma affectionate and sweet, planning their day, making him marvel at his good fortune. 

 

“Didn't we just er-” he reached up and scratched his head, making her laugh.

 

“Not  _ that _ kind of lesson,” she leaned up, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I was thinking swords, not-” her eyes flickered down meaningfully. “Sword.” 

 

He knew he was bright red by the sudden rush of heat to his face, her laughing dancing eyes. He ducked down then, capturing her bottom lip between his own, half because he wanted to kiss her more fully, half to hide his embarrassment. It had been bloody weeks now and he still blushed like an untouched maiden. 

 

She surrendered beautifully, smiling against his mouth as she pressed up on her toes, her arms tightening around him. She was strawberry sweetness and warmth, his chest almost aching from it.

 

“How about a dance lesson instead?” he asked. He felt so giddy and light, he didn't particularly wanting to mar the day with violence, give up the feel of her in his arms. He leaned his head back slightly to chase the hand in his hair, loving the press of her nails on his scalp, resisting the urge to purr as she stroked him. 

 

“We could do that,” she agreed. 

 

Killian pulled away, and at her confused expression he just smiled, leaning forward into a bow. 

 

“Would you do me the honor?” He held out his hand. Emma laughed, rolling her eyes as she took it and nodded, responding with a half hearted curtsy that made his grin widen. 

 

He shifted into her space, his hook at her waist, holding their hands aloft. He gave her a pointed look, a signal to start.

 

Emma smiled at him and began to hum. 

 

But it was not the beautiful notes of their waltz that came out, the now familiar cadence of a sweet tune that brought even sweeter recollections of Emma in his arms. 

 

It was a sea shanty, one he knew well, one he had never wanted to hear again, this song bringing dark memories, and pain riddled fear. This song sung for years to torment him, overheard by the crew in his worst moments, and brought out again and again to torture him until they eventually grew bored with the game, put off by his lack of response, finding new ways to bring him down.

 

_ “I thought I heard the Old Man say _ __  
_ you can go ashore and take your pay.” _ __  
  


The lyrics echoed in his ears and Killian jerked away, feeling as if she had scalded him, dread coiling in his stomach. All his elation, the mornings warm joy, ebbed away with a sudden snap, replaced by sharp piercing cold.

 

“W-Where did you hear that song?” his voice sounded strange to his ears, far away. It wasn't his voice at all. 

 

Emma’s eyes widened, her hand going to her mouth. 

 

“No,” she whispered out. She wasn't speaking to him, her eyes flickering to the side. She was talking to the darkness again. “Not like this.”

 

He clenched his teeth trying to make sense of her words, the frightened guilty expression on her face.

 

“Where,” he repeated, anger rising in his chest, scorching him, at war with confusion, unsure of even why he was angry, a dawning realization instinct knew but his mind had not quite fully fathomed. “Did you hear that song?”

 

“Killian-” Emma stepped towards him but he scrambled backwards, trying not to trip over his feet. 

 

“Where!” 

 

Killian couldn't even remember the last time he had yelled in anger. Fear and terror yes, but rarely anger, the punishment for such would have been swift and sure. But he didn't care. He felt like he was looking down on some other version of himself, trembling and raging, choking on heat, his throat rubbed raw with it. He felt disconnected and far away, floating above himself watching a drama play out down below. He felt like a child, stamping and pouting, wanting to go back to sweet kisses and promises of a dance, forced to face something he hadn't asked for. He didn't want this. He couldn't breathe, air trapped in his lungs. 

 

“You,” she said weakly. “You sang it.”

 

What she said was impossible. He wouldn't have dared. 

 

“I haven't sang that song in over a decade. I  _ never  _ wanted to hear that song again,” each word was slow and deliberate, carefully chosen and measured, trying to reign in his reeling emotions, pull himself back in. He could feel his breath catching and hitching as a familiar panicking weight settling heavy on his ribs. 

 

He thought of the golden glow of dreamcatchers, tinkling shells and soft feathers. He thought of gifts given with tears in his eyes, pressing them into her palm, insisting that she take them.  _ Needing  _ her to take them, to make found objects useful and wanted, much like him.

 

“The dreamcatchers,” he said dully, looking away. 

 

“Yes,” her lip trembled, eyes welling with frustrated tears. “Killian. I wanted to tell you, I tried to.” He ignored her.

 

“How much did you see?” 

 

“Just one,” Emma promised shakily. She motioned to his hook. “Just the one, I swear. I didn't want you to have to retell it, live through it again. You didn't want to talk about it.” 

 

“So you took it,” he felt numb, the chilling cold settling over his skin like bathing in a river of icy water. The current threatening to pull him down, drowning in the cold, covering him from head to toe. His legs felt like they could fall out from under him, wanting to sink to the ground, too weak to support him any more. 

 

“Yes,” she closed her eyes, another tear slipping beneath her lashes. “I just wanted to know you. Spare you that pain.” She sounded so desperate, so pleading his heart cracked, splitting open, but anger filled the spaces, running through his blood now, raging through his veins, he could hear the rush of it in his ears, roaring and too loud.

 

“When?” It seemed important. He didn't know why, the question just came, unbidden.

 

“After that first night, the first time we-” she trailed off. “The night I asked you about it. You refused to say and I just...I wanted to know.” 

 

“That-that wasn't your decision to make,” he bit out, stammering. It made him angrier, even now he couldn't express himself clearly. “You can't just-” he cut himself off, unsure of what to say. 

 

“I know!” Emma stepped towards him. “I should  _ never _ have done it, but you don't understand-”

 

Grim awareness settled in next, his brain only able to handle one thing at a time. The grip of her hands on a black dreamcatcher, nervous and unsure, practically shaking from fear in his study. A gift given, he’d thought, out of love. 

 

“That's why you gave me yours,” he nodded to himself. Betrayal sank heavy on his shoulders, a familiar weight, unwelcome, unwanted, but familiar. 

 

It hadn’t been a gift at all. It was payment. Services rendered. 

 

“Yes- I mean, no,” Emma moaned, her own frustration at not being able to explain evident in her voice, and his heart cracked further. “The darkness it  _ wanted  _ me to give you one or two, to make up for it, but I gave you them  _ all _ -”

 

“Shoring up accounts then?” He couldn't help the sneer, couldn't seem to control himself. He didn't want to talk to her like this, but he couldn't seem to help it. Perhaps he had some instinct in him after all the distant version of himself thought bitterly.

 

“No,” Emma cried. “I wanted you to see, to  _ know me _ , so you could understand.” 

 

Killian did understand, so much more now. The things she said, all the little hints dropped along the way, her odd behavior at times, the flashes of guilt on her face, shame in her eyes, dropped conversations in the dark. His head snapped up in realization.

 

“That's why you wanted to keep them,” he said. “It wasn't because of what they did in the dungeon, it was because of this.” He held up his hook. “ _ That's _ why you wouldn't let them go.” 

 

He had known, logically, that it didn't make sense, their punishments were too severe for such a modest crime in comparison, but he had pushed the thoughts away, pushed them down with everything else. They deserved it after all, he’d told himself. It didn't matter if it made sense. He shouldn't have listened.

 

“Not just that,” Emma said. “All of it. Everything they did to you. They had to  _ pay.” _

 

“I didn't want that,” he shook his head. “I never wanted any of that.” That was a lie, or a half truth at best. He had wanted it, but not by  _ her _ hand. 

 

“But why?” Emma was in front of him now. “Why shouldn't they suffer as you did? For what they did  _ to _ you?” 

 

“Because it doesn't _matter,”_ he was yelling again. “I just wanted them to go away, forget it forever, be here _with_ _you_. Making them pay accomplishes nothing. Why would you ever think I'd want you to do that? Give into vengeance for me? Give into darkness for me? Get more blood on your hands?”

 

“I know, I know, Killian I'm sorry,” she grabbed onto his shirt, pressed her face into his chest. “I would take it back, if I could take it back, I would.” 

 

He stood there for a moment motionless, feeling her shaking and trembling against him. Her hiccuping sobs wracked through him, sorrow settling into his bones as she apologized over and over again, a rasping prayer of regret against his heart. 

 

He hesitated a moment and then lifted his hand, pressing it to her spine, feeling her shaking warmth through her dress, seeping into him, banishing the cold, feeling his anger shatter beneath the weight of her grief. 

 

“Why wouldn't you just tell me?” he whispered, hoarse and trembling. He pressed his lips to her hair, breathing her in, grounding himself with her scent. He closed his eyes.

 

“I wanted to, so many times. But there was always something. I didn't want to lose you. And then you had been through so much, you were changing so much, I couldn't put this on you as well. And  _ it _ told me to, it told me to tell you and I didn't know what was right anymore, what I  _ should _ do,” she sucked in a shuddering breath. “I still don't know. I can't- I can’t control it. I thought I could, that I  _ was.  _ But I can't.” 

 

She pulled away, still clutching at him, and Killian leaned back, looking down into jade green eyes, swimming in tears and regret, wild and open and pleading.

 

“Killian, you have to help me,” she whispered. “Please.”  

 

Nervous trepidation filled in some of the spaces anger had left, the look on her face almost frightening in its intensity. 

 

“How?” 

 

She stepped away from him, jerked her hand down, white gray smoke filled her palm and in its wake a familiar dagger, undulating curves and black embossed script was clutched in her fist.  _ Emma  _ in inky swirling letters stared back at him as she held it before her, her hand trembling. He jerked his gaze away from it, stepping back on reflex.

 

“You have to take this,” she said, her eyes snapping to the side briefly before resting on him. “I  _ need  _ you to take it.”

 

Killian had seen what that weapon could do, and while he didn't fully understand its power, its hold over her, he could remember a monster choking on his words, Emma’s angry commands, its inability to refuse them. Could remember Emma on her knees before a man who had betrayed her, and harsh whispers in the black, voices crying out from the deepest recesses of hell itself. That dagger was chains in wicked razor edges, slavery in temptation. He shook his head. 

 

“Emma, no,” he had thought there was nothing he could refuse her, nothing on this earth he wouldn't do for her. But he would not do this. He would not enslave her.

 

“You have to, it has to be you,” Emma held it out more insistently.

 

“Why?” He croaked. All he could see looking at it was two boys traded for a simple ship, years of burden and toil, black figures in ledger books deciding the course of his life.

 

“Don't you get it? It’s been using _you_ since the beginning. Everything I've done, everything I thought I was doing _for_ _you_ was for the darkness. It knew how much I wanted you and it told me to take you. It saw you trembling and scared, so lost, and it knew there was vengeance to be had. It saw how much you needed protection that first day, a savior, how grateful you were to have one, how much joy that brought _me,_ and it twisted that. It used it against _us.”_ She swallowed, “Everything I've done has been in service to it, everything I thought I was doing for you, all of it, all my magic, healing you, elaborate meals, stealing your memories, making them pay, Blackbeard, all of it, was because I _loved_ you.” 

 

It was some kind of terrible irony, Killian thought wildly, that the one time he was of use, the one thing he had been useful for, was this. The one time someone, anyone, other than Liam, had told him he was loved it wasn't because of him at all. He felt sick, her words washing over him.

 

“All of it?” 

 

He hated how weak he sounded, how heartbroken. He wished for nothing more than the ability to lie, to be callous and cruel, that the lessons he’d learned from the life he’d led were not meek subservience but hardened disregard. Instead, he trembled before her, his heart crumbling to dust, head spinning with how quickly everything had fallen to ash, as the woman he loved told him it had all been a lie, a trick by some ancient primordial evil, the devil making her believe she cared for him, just to suit its whims. 

 

He stepped back, and tried to breathe. 

 

“Oh Killian, no,” she shook her head. “No. it was real. It was all real,” she looked away, her voice heavy and sad, centuries of sadness, “That’s what the darkness  _ does _ . It takes what you love, the people you care for, and it uses them against you. Makes you believe what you’re doing is out of love, or, or, kindness. But it just wanted my magic, it feeds on it. It doesn't matter how it gets it. I barely used it for years before you came here. I couldn't give into it.” 

 

She look at him fully then.

 

“But after you washed up on my shore I thought this could be different, that I could be better, use it for you. I  _ do  _ love you. I  _ do.  _ More than anything.” 

 

He swallowed, closing his eyes in blinding relief, hearing the truth of her words. The rest didn't matter. That's all he needed. He just needed to hear them when action had failed. Just needed her reassurance in the face of betrayal. 

 

“Which is why you have to take this from me,” she said firmly. His eyes snapped open. He shook his head. 

 

“No. I don't-I  don’t want that. How could you think-” he shook his head again, agitation and frustration, helplessness, making him clench his teeth, grinding them against the tumult of rapidly changing emotions. “How could you think I would ever-” he growled to himself, fist clenching. “I could never do that, never control someone like that. Could never control  _ you  _ like that.”

 

“I can't, Killian I can't control it myself you have to help me,” she sobbed then, holding the horrible weapon out. “You can  _ stop _ me.”

 

“ _ You _ can stop you Emma. The only one holding that dagger is  _ you.”  _

 

He stepped towards her, pleading now.

 

“I've seen how strong you are, how much you can do. You can fight it. You can  _ win _ . But not if I force you to. I wouldn't-”

 

“I can't,” she shook her head. “I tried. I lied to you and hid things from you, hurt those men for you, used dark magic to steal your memories, to give you mine. I came here because I couldn't trust myself.” 

 

She locked eyes with him, and he knew she was begging him to see, to know, and it broke his heart further. There would be nothing left of it soon.

 

“But I trust  _ you _ .” 

 

“Emma,” Killian looked at her, wanting her to understand. “I can't.”

 

Her face fell, and he continued on.

 

_ “We _ can though. We can figure it out together. That's-that’s why I wanted to learn how to navigate, so we could go  _ anywhere,  _ anywhere we needed to. If you wanted to.” 

 

He took another step towards her.

 

“We can find a way to free you.” He reached out, placed his hand on her wrist, gently pushed her arm down until she dropped the dagger limply by her side. “Like you freed me.” 

 

She looked away from him and stared unseeing at the floor, the only sounds in the room their shaking trembling breaths, her hand tremoring violently around the hilt of the blade.

 

“You have to go,” she said finally, her voice like ice. 

 

“What?” The words hit him like a physical blow, making him stumble back. 

 

She didn't look at him, just raised her arm, and he could  _ feel _ the darkness then, a chilling breeze lifting his hair, the fabric of her dress, the silver curls down her back. 

 

“You aren't safe here,” her face was the marble mask again, her eyes dark, fathomless, and the sky seemed to mirror them, turning slate steel gray with an unnatural swiftness, a storm blowing in off the water, where there had been blue cloudless sky.

 

The windows rattled in their thin panes. 

 

“You have to go.” 

 

“Emma, no,” he stepped towards her but something held him back, a wall of air thick and heavy between them, the wind picking up around her, the glass walls vibrating faster and faster as the terrible feeling grew, pressing around them. The same darkness from her memories, bearing down, crushing him.

 

Somewhere there was a loud shuddering groan, something breathing to life, and he jolted at the noise, pressed hand and hook against his head, ducking away from it. Like a monster from the deep it creaked and moaned, sent fear racing down his spine, goosebumps rising on his flesh. It was unnatural and terrible, grating against his ears, setting his teeth on edge.

 

“What are you doing?” He yelled, the rushing air loud in the room, the plants around them shaking as well, their leaves blowing back from the force of it, a hurricane in a glass bottle, swirling around them. 

 

When she looked at him this time her eyes were no longer black, but green as summer moss, wet and shining in the gray light. Filled with love. She was the center of the storm, the calm eye, glowing with light.

 

“Sending you away,” she whispered, and even over the tremendous roar of wind, that terrible creaking rumble, he heard her clear as day, hollowing out his chest, twisting at this stomach.

 

Behind her, on the beach below, he saw the source of the terrible screaming groans, sliding along the shore.

 

The ship, The Jolly Roger, whole and perfect again, pulled from the sand, rebuilt from the wreckage, and dragged along on black liquid tendrils of smoke out to the violently churning sea. 

 

He jerked back to her, seeing her intent, what she had planned, and anxiety clawed at his throat, burning through him like lightning. 

 

“No!” 

 

“You’re not safe here,” she whispered, her voice filling his head in an unnatural echo. He tried to move, to stop her, but his feet were stuck fast to the floor. 

 

“It will use you again. Until there’s nothing left. Take you from me forever.”

 

“Don't do this. Emma,” he pleaded. “Please. Don't.” 

 

“I'll find a way,” she reassured him. “I'll try, _for_ _you_. But until I can, until it's gone, until it's just you and me, you have to go, Killian.”

 

She raised the dagger higher, squeezed her eyes closed, and the terrible cry she gave blended with the glass walls around them as they shattered outward. 

 

The world caved in on top of him then, suddenly empty and silent. 

 

____

  
  


The wind whistled through the room long after he’d gone. Cool sea breeze dried the tears on her face before they could drip down to the cold stone beneath her cheek.

 

He was gone. She’d sent him away, nothing but howling wind and hollow emptiness where just hours before she had felt warm, full, more alive than at any time in her centuries long existence.

 

_ It's not as bad as all that dearie  _ the darkness taunted.  _ You can bring him back. Let us play with him some more. _

 

Emma curled inward, squeezing her eyes shut. She wanted to. Gods she wanted to.  It had only been a matter of hours but it felt like an eternity, all this pain, searing at the edges of the hole he had left within her. But it wasn't safe for him here. Not anymore. She swallowed. 

 

“Go away.” 

 

_ Oh it's just you and me now I'm afraid, _ it hissed.  _ Forever. _

 

“Not forever,” she said dully. “Just until I get rid of you.”

 

_ You think it's going to be that simple? You need us.  _

 

“I don't,” she shook her head against the stone. 

 

_ Because now you’re in looove? We saw how that worked out didn't we,  _ it tittered, the sound grating against her nerves, unsure of who it meant: Killian, Walsh, Baelfire, her parents, her brother, so many people she had loved. So many people she had failed.

 

_ All those people. Left you. Abandoned you.  _ It slithered around her, chilling her to the bone.  _ But never us dearest. Never us. We’ve always been here.  _

 

_ “He _ didn't leave me,” Emma said dully. 

 

_ Only a matter of time. _

 

“No.” Emma sat up abruptly. “I know what you're doing,” she hissed. “I know this game.” 

 

She stood, waving her hand in agitation, replacing the glass, the room growing silent as the wind off the sea disappeared, the plants settling around her in the absence.

 

“I'm not playing anymore,” she said. 

 

_ Oh, we’ve heard that one before. Empty words. Empty promises. Never again she says, I don't need you she says. You always needed us dearie. You always will.  _

 

“You’re afraid,” Emma blinked in sudden realization. “You’re  _ scared  _ of him.” 

 

The darkness said nothing. 

 

Emma laughed then, high pitched and hysterical in the empty room. She laughed until she was crying again, wracking heaving sobs that had her clutching the wooden raised beds with white knuckles, digging her nails in, her heaving breaths making green leaves shake and tremble anew.

 

She sucked in a breath.

 

“You're not the only one,” she whispered brokenly to the empty room. 

 

Emma took in another shuddering breath. She wiped her eyes, straightened her dress, and left the room to get to work.

 

The darkness was silent. 

 

____

 

Killian awoke with a whispered word to a vaguely familiar ceiling, white painted beams and a looming golden figurehead, the strange bed beneath him hard and firm against his back, his body swaying with subtle rocking movements he hadn't felt in well over a month. 

 

“No.” 

 

He closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of the Captain’s cabin. 

 

He had told her once that if she no longer had use for him that she should send him away, when there inevitably came a day where she didn't want him anymore she should make him go. And it seemed she had. Back to his ship, albeit a slightly different sleeping location, even his clothes returned, the familiar leather and velvet of that first night rasping against his skin. 

 

He knew what he  _ should  _ feel. Resigned, accepting, heartbroken and lost. Another beautiful thing gone too soon, a fleeting glimpse of the divine, no different than summer sunrises and star filled heavens. He should remember her fondly, like nutty sweet sugared candy from a too kind soul, the warmth of a brother’s love. But all he felt was rage. Hot tendrils of anger creeping across him, and he clenched his fist.

 

He reveled in it, let it fill him like liquid fire, soothing the edges of a broken heart, the helpless frustration of being discarded, vanished away like the leftovers after a meal or chilling bath water. He had never expected to feel such, had basked in quiet love and awe of her for so long the anger was a welcome soothing calm, the rest of his feelings too raw and tattered to focus on. 

 

He wouldn't let her do this alone. He wouldn't let her leave him behind.

 

Killian jerked up from the bed, taking in the room. It was whole and perfect again, his sword and a beautiful golden sextant laid neatly on the table, his little dented box of treasures beside them. All traces of him wiped out, erased. He latched onto the bitterness, the alternative to collapse from grief, and jerked the sword belt around his waist. 

 

It would be needed, it seemed, noises from the deck above letting him know his meager material possessions were not all she had returned. Cold fear doused some of the rage, and his hand trembled as he fastened the belt in place. He didn't want to face them. Didn't want to see them again. But it appeared he had no choice. 

 

Killian looked at himself in the simple mirror above the basin, his eyes bloodshot and crazed, shadows underneath, and tried a sneer on for size. It seemed impotent and weak, a child acting like a man, but it would have to do. 

 

He climbed the ladder with heavy booted feet, his heart thundering, and opened the hatch to face them.

 

____

 

It seemed her exquisite attention to detail did not extend to the well being of the battered crew. They were weak and half starved, wild feral looking creatures on the deck, eyes darting around bewildered and frightened, distrusting of their location and one another. It helped some, seeing fear on their faces for once, and he stepped onto the wood, looking down at them, trying to appear intimidating.

 

“The Dark One has seen fit to let you go,” he tried not to swallow at the sharp stone suddenly lodged in his throat as over half a dozen confused, but no less terrifying, men turned towards his voice. He mustered up all the imperiousness he could, thinking of what Emma would do, trying to make his face appear cold and neutral.

 

“She entrusted me with your safe return to-” he glanced quickly at the dock, trying to discern where they could be. It looked the same as any other harbor, men working, bustling activity, the scent of city and sea, nondescript stone and wooden buildings rising up further afield. He had no idea.

 

“-here.” He finished lamely. “And now that we have, er, arrived at our destination, please depart with all due haste.” 

 

“Not bloody likely,” came a growl, and Killian resisted the urge to groan, his eyes closing briefly. Of course it would be him. 

 

Even battered and beaten Evans still cut an imposing figure, rising shakily to his feet, and Killian’s heart picked up speed watching the man stand. He was covered in dried blood and purpling bruises, barely able to straighten fully, but he towered over Killian and his one good eye was a hard determined slit.

 

“Where is she?” the man demanded. 

 

Killian was at a loss for what to say, his mouth working uselessly.  _ Gone, far away, she sent me away just like you. _ It made his chest ache, made him want to collapse in grief, but he had much more pressing concerns. He shoved it all down, where he kept everything else, all the terrible memories, the fear, he locked it away and put his shoulders back. 

 

“She doesn't trifle with these sorts of things,” he said finally. “I've been sent in her stead.” 

 

“Just you?” Evans’s eye narrowed further.

 

Killian had to resist the urge to step back, everything in him telling him to  _ run _ , his nerves on fire. But he straightened, let his hand graze the pommel of his sword meaningfully.

 

“She felt I was enough. She taught me many things,” he looked at him pointedly, hoping it was vague and threatening enough. 

 

Evans stepped towards him. 

 

“Apparently not,” he muttered to himself. He flashed a smile.

 

“Not another step,” he said warningly. “The dock is that way.” He gestured towards the gangplank.

 

If he was not consumed with all encompassing terror he would have appreciated the momentarily dumbfounded expression on Evans’s face that he had dared such cheek. As it was he could barely keep himself from visibly trembling.

 

“No. I'll be having this ship,” Evans said. “Cap’n’s gone, Starkey ain't fit to wipe his arse anymore, this ship belongs to  _ me now.”  _

 

Killian swallowed.

 

“N-no. It belongs to me,” he squared himself. “A gift from The Dark One.”

 

Evans laughed, a hacking spitting sound, cruel and derisive, the fine hair on the back of Killian’s neck standing on end.

 

“Then I'll be taking it,” he reached down, grabbing a sword from a far less mobile crew member at his feet. 

 

The rest of them thankfully did not look as anxious for his blood. These were not loyal men, they hadn’t followed Blackbeard for any other reason than the guarantee of hefty prizes and lots of gold, the freedom of unchecked violence and destruction. They would have turned on their captain in an instant if the money stopped pouring in, and weeks of being starved and fighting amongst themselves for every scrap and drop meant there was no love lost between them any longer, if it had ever existed at all. 

 

Especially for Evans it seemed, the glances sent his way were greedy and murderous, the faces of men wanting comeuppance and vengeance. It had been Evans and Starkey who provoked their jailer after all, who had prevented them from a hot meal and decent treatment at the start. They were not smart men but they had long memories.

And there was always the ghost of Emma, the possibility of her appearing from thin air, weeks of her surprising them, frightening them, keeping them in line. 

 

They were nothing but pack animals, mindless and willing to fall into line behind whatever leader presented themselves as fit. And Hook was healthy and stronger than all of them at the moment, well fed and clean, nourished by love and comfort, and fit through weeks of exercise and practice. He was in better condition than any of them, half starved, abused and weakened as they were. 

 

Or so he hoped. If they decided to join together, to wrest control of this ship from him as one, he wouldn't stand a chance. He’d have to take what advantages he could, and hope he could get away if things took a turn. He thought of Emma, alone with the darkness, her face covered in tears as she reluctantly sent him away, for his safety, not realizing it was hers that was in question. He had to try. 

 

“And do what with it?” Killian asked, forcing himself to appear nonchalant.“You can't read, you can't navigate, you have little experience. You’re a gunner, and a decent one, but you’re not good for much else.” 

 

Killian took a certain amount of dark pleasure in speaking those words, in seeing Evans tense at them. He glanced at the crew. “And this is, after all because of  _ you _ . She was going to let you go, you know-,” he said with feigned casualness “-send you all away,  _ as I asked her to _ , but someone-” he looked at Evans meaningfully. “-couldn’t leave well enough alone.” 

 

It was the right tack to take based on the looks of it, the crew shuffling amongst themselves, their glares more pointed. He had no idea what had occurred down in those bleak dungeons for so many weeks, but it was safe to assume that it had been a terrible trial indeed, and Evans had not made many friends during it. 

 

Evans glared at him, and said nothing, just brandished the borrowed sword. Killian was thankful to see that despite his attempts at appearances to the contrary, the man was struggling, a slight tremble in his muscles, fleeting glances of pain as he stepped forward on probably fractured limbs. He may have years of experience in his favor but he did not have the advantage of power any longer. 

 

“Are you certain?” Killian asked, nervous anticipation and fear thrumming against him, trying to keep his face in check. 

 

“This ship is  _ mine,”  _ Evans snarled. 

 

Killian barely had time to draw his own blade before the man lunged forward, scrambling back to put some distance between them, getting it up just in time to prevent the attack. 

 

Evans was  _ strong _ , the force of his blows vibrated up Killian’s arm almost jarring the hastily retrieved sword from his grip, but the man was also lumbering clumsiness, and slowed by fatigue and pain. Evans had never been a skilled fighter, preferring brute force and utter ruthlessness to any sort of form or structure and it showed now as he lashed out without precision or care. It was a small advantage but it was a potent one. Killian pressed forward, going for speed and strategy rather than power. He had endurance on his side, this man did not, and based on his fumbling attempts, he wasn't quite used to his body’s new weakness. 

 

The remaining crew watched with silent detached interest, not stirred for either side enough to drum up any enthusiasm in their present conditions, most of them hadn't even made the attempt to rise from the deck, some could not if they'd wanted to. 

 

It was a clumsy ill fought battle, Killian had only a few weeks under his belt, and Evans was hardly elegant in execution. Killian lunged forward, tried a feint, but Evans ducked away just in time, sluggish but fast enough. Their swords clanged together again and again, feet moving along the deck.

 

Evans pressed close, swung his fist, and connected with Killian’s jaw. An unexpected but weak blow that had Killian stumbling back a bit as Evans pressed aggressively forward, taking the opening. Fear flashed up his spine. Evans had years on him, was twice his size, and for a few heart stopping moments Killian was sure he was going to lose, that he would never see her again, never kiss her again. He righted himself just in time to block another arcing swing, and scrabbled backwards away from the man, putting the helm between them. 

 

“Coward,” Evans spat.

 

Killian almost froze, the morning’s anger rising up, all that hot potent rage. He did not have time for this. He was  _ tired _ of this. Of being used and discarded, of being pushed down and defeated. He would not fall to this man, not after so many years of letting him beat him down. He couldn't give him the satisfaction. He stepped around the helm and held his sword up again. 

 

Evans charged like a bull, and Hook darted away at just the last moment, speed and agility on his side, and he lashed out with a booted foot at the back of the man's already probably fractured leg, sending him to his knees with a howl.

 

Hook advanced, the man turning just in time to block the fall of the blade, rising as best he could on shaky legs. Killian surged forward again, rained down merciless blows, his eyes sharp and assessing, taking advantage of every weakness, every opening, greedy and enraged, he did not let up, not for a moment, the metal ringing, grunts of pain and exertion, his lips curling over his teeth. He would not let up. 

 

All those years, this man’s laughing face, dragging him forward under the sun to steal his hand, kicking him with booted feet, dragging him to the brig, and pummeling him with heavy fists, all for lies, for nothing, for inconsequential crimes and for the sport of making a weaker man suffer. All those years fueled the fire already raging in him, his arm moving of its own accord, shoulder burning, barely thinking of the attacks he levied before he was executing them. Instinct drove him forward, only this time he was on the deck of a ship he didn't want, not dueling with a ghost in a study, but fighting a man he loathed, far away from the woman he loved, cast aside with men he hated. 

 

A sharp glancing blow on his hand had Evans losing his grip, dropping his sword as blood from the gash rained down, and the weapon clattered onto the deck, useless. Killian kicked it away ruthlessly as he stepped towards him. 

 

Evans opened his arms wide then, looking up at Killian from his knees, welcoming death, panting and listing wildly, disoriented from pain and exertion.

 

“Well then? Go ahead. End it,” he spat out dully.

 

Hook stopped just before him and raised his sword, practically snarling now. He twisted his hand, the sword pointing towards the water, and reared back, sending his fist wrapped around the hilt, forward into the man’s face with crushing ferocity, a nose giving way under the blow with a sickening wet crunch, and lancing pain surged up Hook’s hand from the impact.

 

Evans swayed for a moment more before crashing onto the deck, unconscious. Killian just heaved for a moment, glaring down at him, shaking. He wanted nothing more than to slit his throat, see blood spill across the deck as  _ his _ had done on that terrible day. 

 

“Get him off of my ship,” he said instead to the crew. “And take yourselves with him, I never want to see you again. And if I do, if our paths should cross again, I will  _ kill _ every one of you.” 

 

If he had been going for intimidating before he had achieved it now, the men hesitating just a moment to rise to their feet, helping those who could not, a few coming forward to hoist the prone figure of Evans into their arms dragging him roughly away.

 

Killian watched them go, his chest heaving, heart thundering, tears burning his eyes, one by one they departed, until he was all alone on the gently rocking ship. 

 

_____

 

A cauldron bubbled on the fire in front of her, spat and hissed foul liquid, steam rising in curling wisps to the ceiling. The darkness was still blessedly silent, sent away, pushed down, to let her work, just a flicker at the corner of her vision as she added the final ingredient.

 

Brilliant red and lavender smoke poured forward, catherine wheels of flickering sparks as the spell took hold, a cry across realms, across space, to some liminal existence in the in-between. She just hoped he would answer.

 

The smoke swirled and coalesced, black nothingness taking hold at the center, and then a face, handsome and wise, bright friendly eyes and placid calm. 

 

“Hello old friend,” she whispered as he came into focus. He looked much the same, unchanged as she was by the centuries, the decades that had passed since she last sought him out. 

 

He gave a wry, though not unkind smile. 

 

“Old friend? A rather odd description, if I may, Dark One.” He said and Emma sighed.

 

“I have not forgotten your kindness, or how you tried to help me all those years ago. I'm hoping you will again.” 

 

“With better results this time I'm sure?” He was still smiling, still joking, but there was an edge to it.

 

“I hope so,” she whispered. “My request is the same as it was then.” 

 

“You wish to be rid of the darkness,” he said reasonably.

 

“Yes,” her whispered reply was a broken thing, shattering in the air like glass.

 

“What has changed since then?” He ran soft brown eyes over her face. 

 

Emma swallowed, ignored the flickering black in her periphery and looked at him fully. 

 

“I fell in love,” she said. 

 

“A powerful reason to be sure,” he smiled slightly. “But as you, and I, well know Dark One, it is often not enough.” 

 

“It will be this time,” she insisted. “It has to be.” 

 

He regarded her for what felt like an eternity, anxiety rising into her throat, worried he would refuse her.

 

“Love is the most powerful magic of all,” he said finally. “It can overcome many things, break any curse. But it alone is not enough.” 

 

Emma stepped closer, pleading. 

 

“What do I need?” 

 

“You have to be sure, Emma, absolutely sure that you want to be free of the darkness,” he said. “This conversation is meaningless unless you are.” 

 

“I am. I am,” Emma felt hot tears in her eyes. “I wasn't before, but I am now.” 

 

The smile on his face faded, his eyes growing hard, haunted by memories, mostly his own, but also she remembered a woman pleading for his help, wanting to spare her family, and failing him in a sun dappled wood. She had turned away from him then, leaving him to rot, trapped forever by his own struggles with the same dark magic. She could have freed him, could have used her powers for good, but instead she had left him behind. 

 

“I'm so sorry Merlin,”, she whispered. “I need your help.” 

 

“If you can let go of the darkness completely, if you can truly set it aside, then I will do what is within my power to help you.” he said finally. 

 

“I can,” she said firmly. “I know I can.” 

 

He continued to gaze at her consideringly.

 

“This person you love, do they know what you are trying to do for them?” Merlin asked.

 

“Yes but I-” Emma looked away, chasing shadows, crying in earnest now. “I sent him away.” 

 

“For his protection or yours?” 

 

“Both,” she answered honestly. Merlin nodded.

 

“Emma, I warn you. It is often not enough to do things only for the people we love,” he said sadly. “Sometimes we must do things for ourselves first. Do you understand?” 

 

Emma hesitated before she nodded, and he marked the hesitation and frowned. 

 

“It is best that this man you love stays away, until you are truly ready,” Merlin said.

 

“I am ready,” Emma snapped, the shadows growing even as she spoke. Merlin just smiled at her sadly.

 

“Until you can say, with absolute conviction that you want to be free of this burden, of the power and all its temptations, I'm afraid you are not.”

 

“Will you help me?” Emma asked instead, impatient already with silly cryptic games, with nonsense riddles and lies. 

 

“I will,” he said. “But until you heed my warnings I'm afraid it will be for nothing.” 

 

“Just tell me what I have to do,” Emma said firmly. Merlin sighed, the image shaky and uneven for a moment. 

 

“It will take time,” he said. “For things to fall into place as they should.” 

 

“I don't know how much longer I can wait,” Emma pleaded desperately. “Please, if you will do this for me, I can free you. I can get you out of that tree, like I should have before.” 

 

The image shrank suddenly and snapped, the man’s face coming back, hard and angry now.

 

“I want none of your deals Dark One,” he said with measured hard words. “When you are ready the answer will make itself known to you.”

 

“I’m ready,” Emma said, “I am.” 

 

The smoke fluttered and flickered, the image fading. 

 

“Let us hope so.” Merlin said, and then he was gone.

 

Emma sank to her knees, the tears coming freely now, the black shadows at her eyes becoming more solid.

 

And darkness laughed with familiar giddy glee. 

 

_ _____ _

 

Killian hoped the ship would be safe alone, unguarded and unmanned in her berth, a tempting fruit, ripe for the picking if someone had the means to try. But he didn't have any other choice. He needed supplies, a crew, and he could not find those things watching over a heap of wood and sails. 

 

If someone  _ did _ have the means to take her he would find another way he reasoned. It was unlikely he could charter a ship, no one would sail in the waters of the Dark One. He was left to his own devices. Chances were most would-be thieves would encounter the same set of problems he himself was facing, no rations, no supplies, no men to man her, and very little experience in the matter. If someone did try he would be half tempted to recruit them for his cause.

 

There was no shortage of funding for his expedition however, the cabin filled with coin and jewels he had no compunction in taking for his own purpose. His allowance on the ship had been a pittance of what the proper share crew received, a bulk of his meager earnings going towards his debt and any new charges against his person, of which there always seemed to be many. So he filled a satchel with what he thought he would need, locking the rest away in hidden secret compartments in the cabin, and set out into town. 

 

The other thing on his side was the sheer numbers of errands he had run for the Captain and the crew during his time. He was familiar with the supplies needed, the places he could acquire them, virtually the same in every seaside port, and while he may not have the finesse to haggle a merchant down, he didn't particularly have the desire. He just wanted to pay whatever they wanted, make arrangements for the necessary deliveries and be on his way, his skin itching, anxiety curling along his spine with every minute that passed. 

 

This was the easy part. He had enough coin to get what he needed without issue, had compiled a hastily scribbled list after a fleeting check of the stores, the inventory, and he had the quartermaster’s poorly legible journals and ledgers to guide him. 

 

The rest of it though, gathering a crew, compelling them to listen to his instructions, convincing them to take a journey to an island that was said to be cursed, a place where no reasonable person would go, would possibly be more than he could accomplish. He may be able to wield a sword now, but he could hardly give orders, could barely keep himself from wincing at the loud noises of the bustling marketplace, much less give himself an air of authority that would inspire strangers to listen to him.

 

It was a mutiny waiting to happen, and he pushed visions of himself gutted and tossed into the sea by an angry mob out of his mind as he went about his business, keeping a weather eye out for his former crew, should they decide to take their revenge on him in the open streets. 

 

The first purchase he made though was not food or water, nor the charts he would need. He caught a glimpse of it in the shop window, almost walked past, continued on his way, but something niggled at the back of his mind, an old lesson from a man who had imparted little wisdom in their brief time together, and none of it particularly useful for a young lad.

 

“Confidence tricks are all a matter of appearance lads,” his father had said, tying a cravat so tightly creased the edges could cut paper, his hair shining and clean. The last of their money had been spent on this fine ensemble, and it was with hungry bellies they watched their father dress. “Wear the right clothes and people will believe anything you try to tell them. Look like you belong and they’ll give you the world.” 

 

It was just a coat. Leather and long, impractical for the daunting heat of sun on the ocean at midday, but it took his breath away. Long and sweeping, black as sin. It reminded him of Emma. Her long black leather coat, marble mask and blood red lips. This was the coat of a man who could command respect if he chose, who could look dangerous and intimidating just by standing there.

 

He handed over the gold, barely looking at the man who owned the little shop, too enraptured by the coat that hung from a wooden facsimile of a person. The room smelled pleasantly of leather and oil, creations hanging from every surface, satchels and belts and sheaths. But all Killian had eyes for was the coat. 

 

It had a high collar and large dangerously pointed lapels, the stitching truly a thing of beauty, intricate peaks of thread at collar and cuff. He reached out to touch the leather, buttery and soft beneath his fingers and smiled to himself. 

 

The shop keep helpfully fitted him into it, the leather heavy and cool as it settled into his shoulders. It required him to widen his stance a bit just to stand straight so much weight was added to his form, but when he viewed his reflection in the cloudy glass of the mirror it was a different man entirely who stared back. 

 

“Fits like a glove it does,” the shop keep said admiringly. “You wear it well sir.” 

 

Killian grinned, perhaps not the most intimidating of expressions, looking down wonderingly at the heavy cuffs, the long leather brushing his legs, his hand gazing across the buttons reverently. 

 

“Aye,” he whispered. “That I do.” 

 

_____

 

Killian moved through the rest of his errands like a man possessed, the beautiful coat snapping and swishing about his legs as he walked with bleak determination. People looked at him differently in it, or perhaps it was just his imagination, but there was a hesitance in their speech, a wariness that had never been there before, the prices they gave for the items he sought more fair, some of them even less than they should be. 

 

People moved out of his way, skittered to the side and cast surreptitious glances over their shoulders, blinked in surprise when he apologized, flustered and stammering. 

 

_ Perhaps it’s a magic coat, _ he thought wildly to himself, nodding over the delivery arrangements, describing the ship,  _ his ship _ . He wanted Emma to see this magic coat, and the thought sent a pang through him so acute it almost brought him to his knees on a crowded street, the air smelling of unwashed bodies and manure, rather than soft soapy skin and roses. He wanted her fingers gripping the lapels, drawing him closer, that wicked look in her eyes. He missed her terribly. 

 

He had to get back to her. It felt wrong, ignoring her wishes, her command that he go, but he knew her reasons why. She didn't  _ want _ to send him away, she foolishly felt she had to, and he wasn't going to let her. He had promised he wouldn't abandon her, hadn't spoken the words as such but he had promised, and he wouldn't. He may not know exactly what he was doing, how to go about everything that needed to be done, but he was going to try. 

 

The thought almost made him ignore the sounds from the alley, the familiar taunts and mocking laughter. He had things to do, a crew to somehow rouse, every moment he spent here was wasted breath. But he caught the flash of frustrated helplessness on a portly man's face as he passed, red and sweating and desperate, and he stopped. 

 

There were three of them, crowded around a short chubby man, and they were the same cruel faced degenerates Killian had known his entire life. Snarling yellow teeth and jeering laughter, dangerous in their stupidity, tossing a scrap of red between them. He thought of his sword, snatched away and hidden around the ship, games of keep away over dinner, dangled over the side as the vessel cut through the water, and he stepped into the alley. 

 

“Evening, gentleman,” he smiled in what he hoped was a charming way. 

 

“Bugger off,” one of them tossed over his shoulder not even glancing at him. Perhaps not as charming as he’d thought. 

 

“I couldn't help but notice,” he tried again. “That you seem to have something that might not belong to you?” It was more hesitant and unsure than he would have liked, but it got their attention nonetheless.

 

“None of your business, is it?” They turned to him, and he was somewhat gratified to see the second glances, the wariness in their faces as they took him in. 

 

“Perhaps,” Killian looked at the sweating man, trembling against the wall of the alley. “Nevertheless, why don't you give that back to him.” He motioned to the scrap of red. 

 

“And what if we don't want to?” One of them licked across cruel lips. 

 

“I can try to persuade you?” Killian felt the skitter of nervousness across his skin, but pulled the coat aside anyway, revealing the guard of his sword. 

 

“It's just a hat,” another one said, confused as to why he would interfere for such a trifle. He wasn't so sure himself, but he knew he didn't like seeing that look on anyone else's face, helpless and lost, desperate and meek, an expression he knew well, a feeling he knew well. 

 

“Then you should have no trouble returning it,” the words left his mouth in a harsh click, in that voice that was not his own. He tried not to look surprised at himself, and instead went for a glower. 

 

One of them looked like he was going to fight, to rise to the challenge, but the other was tossing the scrap of red to the ground in disgust. The chubby man leapt for it, grasping it to his chest, relieved. 

 

“Just having a bit of fun,” one of them bit out. “He owed us, didn't have the coin to pay up.”

 

“Oh?” Killian glanced to the man. “How much did he owe?” 

 

They looked at each other and considered their options.

 

“Five gold,” one said just as the other one said “Three”, and the man kicked out at his companion, annoyed. Killian just smiled and reached into his satchel, drew out 6 pieces, and tossed them to the ground where they clinked tinnily against the cobblestone. 

 

“There, debt repaid, on your way then,” he stepped back with a flourish, his heart thundering. He doubted he could take them all on, they were wiry and gaunt but there were three of them. They had no interest in fighting him though it seemed, happy to have the gold, and it was more than gratifying to see them scrabble for the coins, hungry eyes wary and greedy as they shoved them into dirty pockets. He felt almost powerful. 

 

They darted out of the alley without another word, one of them spitting at his boots as he left. Killian sagged a bit in relief.

 

“Thank you sir,” the man breathed out. “My grandmother she-” he fitted the hat on his head. “-she made me this and I-”

 

Killian waved him off distinctly uncomfortable at the thanks. He shuffled a bit, moving away.

 

“It's okay,” he interrupted kindly. “No thanks needed. I’d stay away from them though, for a little while at least.” 

 

He turned to go but the man rushed after him, grabbed onto the sleeve of his coat. Killian looked down at it in startled surprise.

 

“But I have to repay your kindness sir,” he said. “A drink at least, on me. I insist.”

 

“I don't have time for a drink,” Killian said, not wanting to mention he couldn't partake anyway. He just needed to move, he felt a bit rude, but he didn't have  _ time _ . He tried to explain.  “I have things to do. Things to acquire for a...journey of sorts.” 

 

“Oh then let me help you, please,” the man thrust out a hand. “William Smee.” 

 

“Killian Jones,” he shook the offered hand awkwardly. 

 

“I’m good at acquiring things. It's my one skill,” the man said, urgent and eager. “I can help.” 

 

“I-” Killian was unsure of what to do. He had never helped anyone before, and he didn't know how to handle the look in this little man’s face, the gratitude he saw there. He imagined it was how he looked at Emma those first first days, just happy to have someone help him, save him. He swallowed. 

 

“I'm looking for.. able bodied men,” he said after a pause. “With sailing experience, I have a ship and I-”

 

“I know where we can find some,” the man was still gripping his coat, pulling him along the alley, overcome with gratitude, practically trembling with it. “I have a little experience myself, not much but I've been on ships before.” 

 

“I can pay,” Killian said, trying not to sound too eager himself, overcome with sudden excitement that someone might be able to assist with what was by far the worst of the tasks. He had never recruited anyone before, was unsure of what he should even say, where to begin. “Fair wages, good food, and a place to sleep.” 

 

“There are some places we can go,” William said. “There's always a few in the taverns looking for work.”

 

“Alright,” Killian allowed himself to be pulled back to the street. 

 

“Just leave it to me Captain Jones, we can find what you need,” the man said confidently, leading him down the lane.

 

Killian’s heart stuttered at the simple word as he trailed dazedly after him. 

 

_ Captain _ .

 

_____

 

Emma had gone years with only using the barest of magic at a time, enough to conjure simple food and clothes, the occasional indulgent bath and nothing more. Little trickles of power to keep the need at bay, make life just comfortable enough in the face of crippling loneliness. 

 

And then a man washed up on her beach, beautiful and sweet and she had delighted in the power once again. Elaborate meals, entire tables filled with every food imaginable, hot steaming tubs of bubbles, dark torture for those who had wronged him and the golden glow of stolen memories. She had flooded her life with magic again, wanting to please him, fed the darkness with every flick of her wrist, every bite of her knife.

 

She couldn't feed it anymore. She didn't want to. 

 

She pushed it away as best she could, as long as she could. She breathed in the scent of him from cool bedsheets, walked along the beach to fill the hours of the day, tended his little plant in their shared garden and she missed him. 

 

She kept turning up dead ends. All her books, all this knowledge, and nothing in them to help her. The Dark One was well documented, stories going back thousands of years, terrible deeds and wicked acts and not a one told her how to defeat it. 

 

Merlin was silent and stalwart, answering her magical calls no longer, his warnings ringing through her head often. She did want to give it up, of this she was sure, but she didn't know how, didn't know where to start. Didn't know what to do when she did. 

 

She longed to bring Killian back, see his beautiful face again, run her hand down stubbled cheeks but the darkness still laughed at the back of her mind, still poured threats and dark promises into her veins. She couldn't. She wouldn't. Not until it was gone. 

 

Every day that passed though had her sinking further and further into grief, until she thought she would go mad with it. The darkness’ taunts louder and louder with every useless book, every piece of missing information. No one had conquered the darkness it seemed, no one had overcome it. Where one perished another one rose, and the more and more she read the worse she felt. 

 

Killian’s scent was fading from their sheets, and his little plant was growing without him and Emma was once again terribly alone. 

  
  


_____

 

They were a ragtag group of misfits to be sure, and Killian eyed the gathered group working on his deck with a mix of uncertainty and fear from his new place at the helm. 

 

The first was Scarlet, a man who had not been sober a moment of their acquaintance. He was strong though, and young, and cared not a wit for the purpose of their journey, as long as the rum was plentiful and the coin was good. There was a shadow in his eyes, memories best forgotten, and Killian could respect that if nothing else. He had been a thief in a former life by his own bold admission, had little experience with sailing, but he could take direction, and he was in fine company. None of them were exactly experts. 

 

Excepting one man, Webber, a skeletal bag of bones who looked as if the ocean breeze could lift him away, ancient and hunched over, but experienced. A man of the sea he had dedicated his life to her, had held every job on the ship for decades at a time, save for Captain. He wanted nothing to do with that, but he had long ago stopped receiving offers to work, had scraped by in town desperate to return to the only life he’d known, no family save for the crews that had left him behind to old age. He was weak and his eyes were rheumy and lined, but he paired up with Scarlet well enough, directing the lad with soft fragile commands, the body through which his quick mind could work again, Scarlet in turn did not need to think. It was an equitable trade.

 

Killian was worried he would have an ancient corpse on his hand before the journey was done, but at least the man would die doing what he loved, he supposed. And he needed the experience.

 

There was Henry, a small slip of a lad, barely older than a cabin boy, thin and dreamy eyed, but eager. He nodded exuberantly and took direction with ecstatic glee, looking at Killian like he’d hung the moon. It was only half the reason he’d taken the lad on. Some of it was that there was no way he could be a threat, like the drunken oaf and the old man, Killian could handle them easily. The other half was the mark of an orphan on his face, the desperate need to please, and Killian found he could not tell him no. It was the safest offer the boy would get as well, a quick journey without violence or harsh demands rather than cruel lessons with terrible men.

 

The one going only by “Fa” was the most startling of the group, a woman who, very mistakenly, thought she was passing for a man. Her attempts to fool them were almost comical, but there was no avoiding the delicate lines of her cheek bones, the feminine almond tilt of her eyes. Thankfully the rest of his mismatched crew seemed to be of the same opinion he was, pretend not to notice, give her the indulgence of anonymity, and let her go about her work. She was very skilled at least, methodical, and efficient, and well trained in combat to boot. There was no greed in her eyes, just a desire to do what she wanted, earn enough coin to go where she needed to go. Killian had promised her the services of the ship at the end of it as well, a promise to take her wherever she wished, and in doing so he saw loyalty shine on her face and he desperately needed loyalty. 

 

Rounding out the little band, save for Smee himself, was Liam, a thin wiry man with poorly grown in stubble spotting his face, trying to appear older than his 20 or so years, and an unruly mop of light brown hair. A pang of memory rang through him whenever he spoke the man’s name, thinking of his brother every time, but a name was thankfully the only similarity the two shared. There was a kinship there though, a shared experience, he had been raised on ships his entire life as well, another orphan seeking a family on the sea, and from the haunted look that crossed his face from time to time he had never found it either.

 

It was not the crew of his dreams certainly, and Killian wondered honestly if they could get  _ anywhere _ together much less across most of an ocean, but it was the crew he had, and he couldn't wait another day. Too much time had already passed already, preparing a ship for a journey was not quick work, and not a moment went by when he didn't worry for what he would find when he finally got back  _ home _ . 

 

There was also safety in this odd little assortment, they were the leftovers, the people no one wanted, too old, too weak, too female, to warrant the attention of anyone else, and there was always gratitude when one was finally chosen after being overlooked by so many. Killian knew that well enough. Save for Fa, and Scarlet, if one could catch him sober, he didn't feel physically cowed by any of them, and that helped a bit in establishing himself as the authority. 

 

He was doing well enough he supposed. The navigating was the hardest part, and he spent many sleepless hours hunched over the charts and figures, unsure if they were correct. Webber was some help in that regard, double checking the figures as best he could with weakened eyes.

 

Smee was also extremely useful, managing the day to day, helping prepare meals for a crew who had no experience in cooking, passable fare that he brought to the cabin and forced Killian to eat with calm cheerfulness. The man had a reputation to out run and no family of his own so he was happy to tag along, a cheerful fumbling left hand man.

 

Killian had no appetite he found, everything tasted of sand and ash, and it was only under Smee’s watchful eye that he took in anything at all most days. He could barely sleep either, grabbing a few hours in between dreams of soft supple skin and silver hair. He was worn down by grief and exhausted but he had to keep going. 

 

They never asked what their purpose was, and for that Killian was the most thankful of all. They merely knew they were taking him home, that his eyes were most often haunted and sad. They never questioned the slightly hesitant orders that fell from his lips, or his fumbling attempts at unfamiliar tasks. That he was not exactly an authoritative Captain wasn't a problem for them. Scarlet would just shrug and carry out his orders under Webber’s careful instruction, pulling occasionally from his flask. Henry would dart across the deck with unchecked exuberance practically throwing himself over the side in his haste.

 

Himself, Liam, and Fa would take turns with the more difficult aspects of running a ship with a minimal crew, the tasks that needed firm and sure hands, and they both gave him a quiet respect and distance he appreciated.

 

Only once had Fa looked at him with sad understanding eyes and remarked he should get some sleep, she could take over the nightwatch.

 

“You might consider a shave as well,” she'd said in the gruff false voice she used for most of the day, excepting times where she forgot. 

 

His beard was getting rather out of hand. 

 

Emma had sent him as far away as she reasonably could. A world away practically, and the journey back was not a quick one. He pushed through with maddening, single minded, purpose, worked his poor crew to exhaustion, and thankfully, somehow, they kept up, long days and short nights as they cut across the ocean. 

 

Some nights, when the wind was calm, and they couldn't move much, they'd dine on the deck, Smee’s poor attempts at cookery tasting better in open ocean air, and he puffed out his chest in pride as they plied him with compliments over the fare. 

 

They exchanged stories by lantern light. Webber’s life at sea, long and fascinating and somewhat melancholy in memory. Scarlet told bawdy tales of daring heists and well endowed wenches that made Henry blush crimson over his plate. Liam smiled indulgently, rolling his eyes at the man and shared long suffering looks with Killian and Fa over the dramatic retellings. 

 

It was the happiest Killian had ever been on this ship in his entire memory, but it was also somehow the worst moments of his life. 

 

“You must love her very much,” Webber remarked idly one day, having checked the charts for him again. Killian looked up startled. He hadn't mentioned Emma at all to the crew, unable to speak her name aloud. 

 

“How?” He sputtered out. 

 

“It's all in the eyes,” Webber said and gestured to the shadows that had gathered under Killian’s. “Only a well loved woman would make a man push himself like this.” 

 

“Aye,” Killian said, his voice breaking only a little.  “I do.” 

 

“We’ll get you there lad,” Webber said cheerfully, and clapped him on the back with a wrinkled bony hand. “Not long now.” 

 

The man pointed with a gnarled finger to the charts, to the distance they had already crossed, the lines signifying where they had to go. 

 

_ Not long now _ echoed in his mind and filled the creases and cracks of his battered heart. 

 

_____

 

The island came into view slowly, the sunrise at his back, casting the water before them in a glow of beautiful reds, oranges and yellows. He closed his eyes against the burn of relieved tears at seeing the dark stone, the towers and the glass of the conservatory rising up among the rocks and beach against a twilight sky, rays of new morning sun carrying the ship home. 

 

“Is that it?” Scarlet asked squinting. Killian could only nod, as the island loomed larger. 

 

“You didn't mention it was a fucking palace,” the man remarked, he looked at Killian askance. “You some kind of Prince?” 

 

Killian gave a watery chuckle and shook his head, his hand gripped tight on the wheel as anticipation burned bright in his chest. 

 

Emma could be up there, right now, in her little glass enclosure, watching the sun come over the horizon, and him with it, just ahead of an oncoming storm.

 

He swallowed and could only hope she wouldn't send him back into it.

 

____

 

Emma hugged herself as the sun crested over the water, her hands on sharp elbows, her heart heavy. There was no joy in this rebellion anymore, the darkness was silent and still as colors played across the sky. 

 

Killian had said he liked this kind of sunrise best of all, reds and oranges filling the world, diffused in the clouds, like being inside a living flame, and tears stung as she watched it unfold, the world growing brighter for this brief moment, light chasing the dark away. Later though, it would be lightning and chaos, booms of thunder that reminded her of a man on a gray beach, salt and sand in his hair, his head thrown back in pure bliss as she drew a smile from his lips with her own. 

 

She swallowed down the memories, and then frowned, stepped closer to the glass, a flicker of movement catching her eye. A ship, cutting across the water. 

 

Her heart stopped. 

 

Emma stepped closer and pressed her fingers against the glass. A ship. 

 

She didn't need to see the blues and yellows of the familiar hull to  _ know.  _ She could feel it as sure as the shaky breath she pulled into her lungs. She could feel  _ him. _

 

“Killian,” she whispered. 

 

_ No  _ the hiss from the darkness vibrated against her with such sudden force she fell backwards a step, the booming voice rising from the very depths of her soul, slamming against her like a stone wall.

 

Emma turned away from the window, went to move, to rush down to him, push the shadows away, but something held her fast. She looked down in horror as tendrils of thick viscous smoke poured forth from her fingertips, wrapping around her wrists, covering her in inky black. It plunged into the ground, into the stone, holding her in place with wispy chains as hard as steel.

 

_ You belong to us dearie, _ it murmured.  _ And you  _ **_will_ ** _ send him away.  _

 

There was a sudden weight in her hand, a heaviness, a dull pulse of magic, and she gripped the hilt of the dagger that had suddenly appeared there, trying to drop it, the leather burning into her hand.

 

“No,” her voice was shaking. “I won't.” 

 

_ But you must,  _ it cooed, and the smoke around her wrists tightened like iron manacles.  _ You’re ours. _

 

_ “ _ I belong to no one,” Emma bit out through clenched teeth. She pulled harder as panic surged along her chest. 

 

She darted a look back at the ship approaching the shore, Killian coming back to her, and her heart soared seeing it, sleek and slick, a deliverance on rays of morning sun. He was almost here. 

 

_ Sink it,  _ the darkness hissed, scratching against her skin, opening up wounds in her mind. Her hand rose against her will and it pushed against her. An image of a sudden storm filled her head, the ship tossed amongst the waves, battered on the rocks. A hull filled with black coursing water, broken apart like a child's toy. 

 

_ Send it to the depths. _

 

“No!” Emma jerked against the bonds, terrified, the smoke coiling tighter. She thrust the dagger down, tried to loosen her fingers, drop the foul thing. She couldn't breathe, her heart thundering as she fought against it. She couldn't let it hurt him. She wouldn't.

 

_ Kill him,  _ it screamed, a thousand terrible voices screeching, throbbing against her ears, making her cry out in pain as needles drove into her skull at the terrible sound.  _ He makes you weak. Makes us weak. KILL HIM. _

 

Emma cried out again as the grip around her tightened, burned into her wrist, yanking her down. She struggled desperately, her eyes cutting to watch the progress of the ship in wide eyed terror, unsure if she needed him to reach her, needed him here, to help her stop this, or if he should stay far away, safe and whole. 

 

Emma yanked and pulled, desperate, tears streaking down her face as she braced backwards, her bones screaming, her wrists threatening to snap. 

 

_ You need us,  _ it rasped,  _ you are nothing without us. _

 

Something in her shuttered suddenly into place, broke inside her with a whirring click and Emma narrowed her eyes, frozen and panting for a moment as the words washed over her, sank into her fully.

 

_ “ _ I am not nothing,” she said coldly, her fingers tightening around the hilt. “And I never needed  _ you.” _

 

Emma pulled her arm with all the strength she had left, the ship fixed firmly in her mind, and the smoke snapped apart like rapidly unfurling rope. Suddenly free, she drove the dagger sideways ruthlessly, teeth bared, straight into the skulking shadows that always lurked at the edge with a shriek, all her rage, all her anger thrown into that single blow.

 

The darkness screamed, a horrible grating cry, filling the world with an unnatural terrifying howl, that had her ducking away to escape the sound, and then she was loose, the pressure eased, her mind suddenly silent. 

 

She dropped the dagger onto the floor with a clatter and  _ ran _ . 

 

Emma could barely breathe, her feet bare and slapping against stone as she made her way through the weaving corridors of the castle, down winding stone steps to the beach below. Her mind repeated his name like an invocation, a holy rite whispering through her, keeping the darkness back. 

 

A ship, pulling into the shallows, dropping a heavy iron anchor over her side. A beautiful, familiar ship bobbing in the water in the distance. Her heart throbbed seeing it, her chest warm.

 

Emma felt cold sand on her toes as she ran along the beach, breathless and eager, her entire being threatening to burst as a small boat was lowered into the water, wind pulling back her hair, wrapping her dress around her, black silk enveloping her like smoke.

 

It took everything she had not to wave her hands, use her magic to bring him to her immediately, but that would make it stronger, give it power, bring it back. She clenched her nails against her palms instead, sharp pinpricks against her skin calming her slightly, and she waited, barely breathing, barely holding onto her restraint as the tiny boat cut across the water with agonizingly slow strokes. 

 

Emma couldn't make out his face at first, he was too far, but she knew the form of him, black against brilliant red and orange sky, knew the shape of his hair as the wind tossed it into chaotic sweeps. A cool peaceful calm settled over her, ran down her spine. He was here.

 

He even didn't wait to reach the shore before he pitched himself over the side, splashing into shallow water, knee deep and heavy as he slogged through it to reach her, and her smile threatened to split her face.  _ He was here _ . Behind him a man holding one of the oars rolled his eyes, and another gave a small polite smile, stopping their progress mid row, perhaps giving them privacy. 

 

“Emma,” his plea was carried to her across the wind and she rushed forward to meet him, slamming into him so hard she almost knocked him back. 

 

“You came back,” she whispered, her hands touching him everywhere, across his neck, his shoulders, over the soft leather of his arms. Tears burned in her eyes as he stepped onto the wet sand in between her legs, waterlogged and wind ruffled and perfect. So perfect, and impossibly here.

 

“Of course I did,” Killian reached up, snagged a curling silver tendril between his fingers, tugging on it lightly, nervously.

 

“You sent me away,” he said. There was no censure in his voice, no anger, but he was scared looking at her, hesitant, and it hurt. She had hurt him. There was no trace of the darkness now, not looking at him in morning sun, his eyes so blue and imploring. No shadows danced at the edge of her vision, just orange and red clouds. All she could see was him. She would keep it away, lock it up, for him, keep him safe. Forever if she must.

 

“I'm so sorry,” she stepped into him fully, pressed her face into his chest. He smelled of leather and salt. “I thought I had to. I was wrong.”

 

He was so warm, so alive, like a living dream, and if Emma had been able to sleep without him by her she would almost think he was. He was too surreal and too wonderful to not be a figment of her imagination, and she breathed him in with great gasping breaths, pressing her nose to the skin of his chest, wrapped her fingers along the lapels of his coat and pulled him into her. She wanted to drown in his scent, touch him everywhere, confirm that he was real and solid and  _ here. _

 

“Please don't do it again,” he whispered brokenly into her hair. “I couldn't take it.” 

 

He nuzzled gently against her temple, his nose pressed into her hair, still so hesitant, breathing her in as well, perhaps reminding himself that she was real too. He seemed to sag against her in relief, all the tension in him draining away, hard lines on his face, shadows under his eyes. She had done this. 

 

“Never. Never. I'm so sorry. I made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.” Emma glanced behind him to the ship. “How did you even get here?” She breathed out wonderingly.

 

“I hired a crew,” he gestured at the two people in the boat, and one of them waved at her awkwardly. “They’re an odd bunch but I think you’ll like them.” 

 

“ _ You _ hired a crew?” She looked at him bewildered, and surprised. 

 

“Captain Killian Jones, at your service milady,” he laughed against her head, she could feel his entire body shake with it, and she let it fill her, overcome with emotion, threatening to split at the seams from the overwhelming feelings, that he had _come_ _back_. “I'm terrible at it truly, but they don't mind much, they don't know any better.” 

 

“You did this, all on your own?” She pulled away, blinking at him in surprise. 

 

“I told you,” he tucked a strand of silver behind her ear. “I was learning to navigate so we could go anywhere you wanted, I suppose we could consider the rest of it a pretty good hand on learning exercise.” He held up his hook, smirking at his own joke. 

 

Her laugh was a shaky sob as she dug her fingers in.

 

“I tried, Killian,” she murmured brokenly against his coat. “I tried to find a way to get rid of it, but I couldn't.” 

 

“Shh, it’s okay,” he soothed, and she leaned into his hand, firm against her back. 

 

“I still want to,” she said pulling away slightly. “With you, together.”

 

“We can go wherever you wish,” he said softly. “Do whatever you want. If you have to live with the darkness forever I promise, Emma, I will love you regardless. I'll love you till my last,” he said and he was so earnest and beautiful, he spoke with so much conviction, she thought she might collapse, her knees buckling. Emma shook her head.

 

“I don't  _ want _ to live with it forever,” she said. “I don't want to live with it a second longer.” She took a deep breath. 

 

Emma waved her hand again, and saw his stricken expression as the dagger appeared there once more, the slight movement as he tried to back away from it, from her. She shook her head.

 

“No,” she leaned into him for a moment, and pressed her forehead against him. “I'm not doing  _ that _ again.” She said, and he relaxed a bit, just a fraction, still eyeing it warily.

 

“Killian,” she said softly. “Or Captain Killian,” she smiled up at him wryly. He returned it, a bit more uncertainly, his eyes still troubled. She couldn't blame him. 

 

Emma took another deep breath and took a moment, letting her eyes rove gratefully over his face, taking him in fully.  _ He had come back.  _

 

She reached out then, and took his hand, slowly opening the fingers of his clenched fist, one by one and he watched her, barely breathing, a protest already forming on his lips.

 

“I'm not giving this to you to stop me,” she laid the dagger in his open palm, and pressed hers on top of it. “Or to control me. But as a promise, that we’ll do this  _ together _ . We’ll find a way  _ together _ . I don't want you to grow old without me, I don't ever want to send you away again, and if I hold onto this darkness that’s what I'll be doing, sending you away, telling you to eventually leave me behind. I don't need it anymore Killian, I don't  _ want _ it anymore.” 

 

Emma pressed the hilt between their palms more insistently. He nodded. 

 

“We’ll go wherever we need to. To the ends of the earth if we have to,” he said firmly. “Together.” 

 

“A powerful sorcerer told me that until I was absolutely  _ sure _ that I didn't want this burden, that I didn't want the power or the temptation, that I couldn't ever be free of it,” her voice was choked with tears, so many tears, she had cried so many of them, seen so many of them, and she swallowed, continuing. “And living without you these past few weeks, not seeing your face, not seeing your smile, I've never been more sure of  _ anything _ .”

 

Emma took in a shuddering breath, closed her eyes for a moment and then looked up into brilliant blue.

 

“I love you, Killian.”

 

“And I you,” he whispered back. He closed his hand around the hilt, pressing his fingers into her hands around it. A promise sealed between them. 

 

Killian ducked down and pressed his lips to hers.

 

_____

  
  


Emma had expected something amazing, something incredible, all the weeks of missing him, the days of overwhelming grief, but the moment their lips touched she was filled, bursting, with a sudden and startlingly hot searing fire, bright and brilliant. 

 

It started at her toes and swept up along her body in a swelling wave of heat and love. White light swelled out between them, blinding in its intensity, burning against her eyelids, her eyes shooting open at the flare. A tremoring pulse of pure magic echoed out, flew from her skin, filled the sky. Emma gasped as she felt it move over her,  _ into _ her, and something screamed in her mind, a dying cry, begging and pleading as the light burned it out, scorched it to ash.

 

It was terrible noise and sudden loss and she cried out, pulling away as the cool fire licked across her skin, the energy growing and building, pressing against her, surging out around  _ them _ . 

 

She heard Killian’s startled yell, far away, echoing her name as a roaring rush of power swept along her form, surged from her fingertips, covering her from head to toe in glowing white light. 

 

And then there was silence. 

 

Emma looked down and blinked, bewildered. 

 

Her dark sweeping dress had been replaced with soft white silk, and yellow buttercream curls she hadn't seen for centuries trailed soft down her chest and shoulders, silver no more. There were no shadows in the corners of her eyes, no heavy weight pressing in around her. She was  _ glowing _ with soft silver light. 

 

She could breathe, her mind feeling light and...  _ free. _

 

“Killian,” she jerked her face up at him in amazement. Every hair on her body stood on end, energy still surging across her skin, filling her to the brim with warmth. She almost couldn’t stand the amazing buzzing heat that moved across her, looking down at herself in wide eyed amazement, flexing her hands, testing, looking around to try and spot the swirling shadows, feel the weight on her skin.

 

“Swan,” he blurted out dazedly.

 

“What?” She looked up at him wide eyed and confused, still trembling with energy, her hands shaking.

 

“Y-You look like a swan,” he stammered out. 

 

“The curse,” she whispered, and then louder, giddy. “I think we just broke _the_ _curse_.” 

 

Emma laughed, and looked down to his hand. It was empty. The dagger was gone. Killian realized it too, flexing his fingers, and drew back reaching out to pick up a lock of her hair, as he had before, rubbing the strand between his them in wonder, a smile breaking across his awed face. 

 

“I can't  _ feel _ it anymore,” she was hysterical now, backing away from him, feeling cool sand on her feet, warm morning air against her skin. “I can't-” she laughed again. “It's  _ gone _ . It’s just  _ me.”  _ She gestured down frantically to herself with trembling hands, disbelieving.

 

The grin that widened to split his face was beautiful, and Emma laughed again, grabbing his coat and hauling him to her. She couldn't kiss him enough, wanted to feel all of him under her lips. His cheeks, his eyes, the corner of his mouth. She wanted it all, forever.

 

“How-?” He managed to get out between laughing gasps and warm kisses trying to slow her down.

 

“I don't know,” she clutched at him still pressing kisses to everywhere she could reach. “I don't know, but it's  _ gone.”  _  He was picking her up then, a real kiss this time, his mouth slick and hot, laying her across his chest as he leaned backwards, crushing her to him.

 

“You did it,” he whispered happily against her mouth.

 

“No, we did,” she whispered back. “It's been so long.” She was crying now, feeling crazy and insane as hiccuping sobs came forth, sinking down his body, grabbing onto his coat to keep her footing. “It's been so long. I didn't remember what it felt like to just be  _ me.” _

 

He ran a hand down her hair, rocking her gently. They stood there for a moment, the sun brilliant and yellow, warming them as cool waves lapped at their feet, Killian swaying them from side to side, allowing her to calm. She felt lit up from the inside, wrung out from days of weeping, surging magic and terror. She was exhausted and keyed up in equal measure, vibrating with intensity. 

 

“I don't know what to do,” she admitted brokenly after awhile of just feeling him against her. “I don't know what to do next.” 

 

“Well, Swan,-” he smiled at his private joke, and moved her hair aside. He pressed a gentle kiss to her neck and murmured against it, “-how about, first I introduce you to my crew. And then, after I ravish you in my cabin,-” a cheeky smile now, his eyebrow raised, “-you can tell me where you want to go. We can go anywhere, everywhere, love. Together.”

 

“Anywhere?” She breathed the word out, marveling at the feel of it on her tongue, a thousand new possibilities stretching out before her, before  _ them. _ She could go wherever she wanted. Centuries now, trapped inside herself and alone on this island and suddenly she had the entire world. She had pressed her lips to save a stranger on a beach after a storm, and he had saved her back in gentle morning light.

 

She looked up at the man she loved, the man who loved her, and he brushed a kiss across her forehead, breathed her in, and gave her the greatest gift in a single word. 

 

“Everywhere.”

  
  
  


FIN

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
